Meet U in LDN
by Vaniah
Summary: Daniel made the big gesture and followed Betty across an ocean. So now what? Post-series bits and pieces about life in Londontown.
1. Chapter 1: Getting Around Underground

DISCLAIMER: Sadly, nothing you recognize is mine.

NOTES: My first piece of fanfiction in about a hundred years. I have no plot or plan for this story. I'm just going to write snippets as they come to me, and hopefully they won't suck. Yay for low expectations! This story is partly to express my love for Detty, and partly for my love of the city of London. Let me know what you think.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE: GETTING AROUND UNDERGROUND

Daniel can count on his left hand, and maybe with a few fingers from his right, how many times he took the subway in New York. The entire left hand made up the times he rode with Betty because she didn't want to pollute the environment by idling in traffic. He has been in London for two days now, and has already surpassed that number of journeys on the Underground.

He is on his way to meet Betty for dinner as planned during their encounter in Trafalgar Square this morning. From this point on, Daniel has no idea how anything is going to pan out. He laid his cards out on the table—or at least he thinks he did. In retrospect, he realises their whole exchange was pretty oblique, but Betty is smart. He can only hope that if she is picking up what he's putting down, so to speak, she doesn't freak out and drop it.

His stomach churns with nerves, and he marvels that his sweet friend can have such an effect on him now. He glances up at the tube map above the door. Only a few stops to go.

It's probably just the novelty of it, but as Daniel sits on a crowded eastward bound Piccadilly line train, plugged into his iPod with his head resting against the glass partition, he thinks that there is something strangely pleasant about this mode of travel. Back home, he mostly got around town using the Meade company fleet of towncars, which were at his beck and call around the clock. Those rides were often where he got most of his emailing and texting done, but he sometimes felt a little lonely in the darkened back seats by himself.

Other times, when the need for speed struck him, he went down into the parking garage of his apartment to pick from his three lavishly expensive sports cars. He remembers Betty's article about driving a stick shift in the city being the height of risky behaviour. She's right. A few years ago, it was a private pleasure for him like no other. He relished roaring around tight Manhattan street corners, feeling the gears shift under his body and catching glimpses of female heads turning as they wondered who was behind the wheel of such a sleek and sexy machine.

Looking up from his iPod, Daniel catches the eye of a pretty young woman as she boards the train at Hyde Park Corner. He stands up, and approaches her as the train moves again.

"Would you like to sit down?" he asks.

The woman smiles gratefully and sinks into his offered seat, pressing a hand to her pregnant belly.

A few stops later, he exits with the rest of the Friday night crowd at Covent Garden station. He waits impatiently for the elevator that takes passengers back up to ground level, then rolls his eyes and starts climbing the 'emergency use only' stairs. All one hundred and ninety three of them.

He emerges a little out of breath, but less nervous from the exercise. He scans the crowd around him, looking for a flash of neon or polka dots among the dark winter coats.

He doesn't allow himself to entertain the thought that she won't show up. Betty would never do that to him.

"Over here! Daniel! I'm here!" Betty is in her magenta coat, weaving around pedestrians and waving at him as if she thinks he will somehow miss her.

He pulls her into a hug when she is close enough, and to his relief, she hugs him back.

"I'm glad you're here," she says into his shoulder.

He gives her a squeeze. She said the same thing on the steps earlier. "I'm glad I'm here, too." She has no idea how much.

Betty laughs and pulls back. "Now that we've established that we're both present and accounted for, let's eat. Lunch felt like a hundred years ago. In the mood for anything in particular?"

"Nope. Just something filling."

"Oh good. There's a Greek place around here I've been craving for days. They have the best stuffed olives."

He gestures in front of himself. "By all means, lead the way. You're the local here."

"I kind of am, aren't I?" She looks thrilled as she leads them down the cobbled road. "Can you believe it, I'm a Londoner now!"

"I can tell. It suits you," he says. He can't keep the stupid smile off his face. Her stride is quick and confident as she navigates the narrow streets, and he feels like he is finally looking at her for the first time since he arrived. If he is honest with himself, probably since that evening they spent picking out his photo for the 100th anniversary issue of Mode. Now he recalls laughing with her that night, admiring the fall of her hair, and thinking he had all the time in the world to examine this new awareness of her he had been carrying around since Hilda's wedding. That night, he still thought anything that happened next would happen on his terms. When _he_ figured things out. Sometimes his self-centredness can be astonishing.

Seeing her now, Daniel feels like the world's biggest asshole all over again for ever resenting a decision that is clearly making her so happy. She is radiant.

"So, how was the traffic getting here? I thought New York was bad, but at least our roads are straight. And numbered, which I never appreciated the genius of until now. I have no idea how cab drivers find their way around. Do you know I've run across four different Queen Streets already?" All of this, she says very affectionately.

"Actually," he says, "I took the Underground."

Her eyebrows shoot in the air and she nearly walks into another person. "Really? I thought you didn't like subways. You always say riding them makes you feel like you just took a bath in someone else's sweat."

He laughs. "Did I say that? It wasn't so bad. Besides, have you seen the price of cabs around here? Remember, I am unemployed."

"Hey, my job offer is still open," she says. "But I'd get on it if I were you. I got a resume on my desk today from a woman who assisted Bob Geldof."

"Wow," he says, impressed. "Tough competition. Bob Geldof, really?"

"Okay, fine. She was Peaches Geldof's nanny. But still!"

A part of him doesn't think it's a bad idea, just because then he could be in her company all day and watch her be dazzling in this new life. "You think I'd be any good? Most of the time I can't even remember what kind of bagels _I_ like."

"Of course you would. You did learn from the best, after all," she says, her eyes dancing with mirth at the thought. "Oh, here we are."

The restaurant is crowded, but the smells are too mouth-watering to pass up in favour of a less busy place. They are seated near the back, and the next few minutes of conversation are filled up perusing the menu. Betty orders a starter, her meal, and asks for the dessert menu in advance because it is her favourite part of dinner, and she needs time to change her mind a few times about what she wants. Daniel remembers dates with models who ordered the house salad and a can of Red Bull regardless of what type of cuisine the restaurant served.

Silence falls between them when the server leaves. Betty smiles at him uncertainly over her water glass, her eyes darting around for something to talk about.

The mile-a-minute chattering on the way here makes sense to him now, and Daniel feels his own apprehension returning. Of course she is weirded out sitting here with him. This is what he had been afraid of, and he knows that any wrong moves from here on out could mean the end of things before they even begin. First step: fill the silence.

"So, big shot managing editor," he says so breezily he surprises himself, "tell me about your first issue. What are you planning?"

Instantly, her face transforms and she latches on to the topic. "Oh my God, where do I start? I swear the first issue is going to match the September issue of Vogue for weight."

"Those overachievers," Daniel grins. He remembers the pressure-cooker atmosphere at Mode when they struggled to match Vogue's page count every year. The year he and Wilhelmina were Co-Editors-in-Chief, Jerrod from layouts was found cowering in the men's room with his Macbook pressed to his chest, muttering about violating the margins style-guide. Under Betty's management, he imagines there will be less of that, and more motivational team pep talks during crunch time. "Start with the basics. What's the demographic?"

Betty grins back at him, and launches into details about passionate and informed 18 to 35 year old Londoners, the younger person's _New Yorker_ angle, the features section devoted to reviewing local theatre, the cover shoot featuring the female Buckingham Palace guards that Betty blogged about during Hilda's bachelorette weekend. Her eyes sparkle engagingly behind her stylish new glasses.

"The first issue," she explains, "will hopefully establish the tone of the magazine, that it's something really different from all the other publications for young people at the newsagents. Oops, sorry. I mean newsstand!"

Daniel grins, teases her about going all Madonna on him already, and indicates for her to keep talking. He is fascinated by the way the contents of her amazing mind are tumbling out from behind her shapely mouth and beautiful teeth.

Betty Suarez, he knows now, is the total package.

She segues into the fact that her blog is now officially tied to the magazine as an online supplement.

"But your blog is so personal to you. Are you okay with that?" Daniel asks. It's a good question. While she was at Mode, Be Inspired was Betty's baby, the safe space for her to stretch her intellectual muscles between columns about the best eyebrow waxers in Manhattan.

"Yeah, I really am. I started it as a way to make my voice heard about the issues that were near and dear to my heart when I couldn't publish them anywhere else. Now I've got a whole magazine to do that in. Mr. Dunne left it up to me to do what I want with the blog, so I think I'm going to go with a travel theme. You know, 'an American girl's adventures in London' sort of thing."

"And that way, you can keep everybody at home up-to-date at the same time. Very effective task management," he teases.

She nods, laughing. "Two bird, one stone."

Next, she describes the thrill of having her own office with a view, and how it's hard not to space out sometimes and stare out the window. Daniel is taken in by her slim, elegant fingers as sets down her water glass and describes that she can see Trafalgar Square to the north and Pall Mall to the east, gesturing as if she is sitting at her desk right now.

Their starters arrive, aromatic and so satisfying to the palette that Betty gives a little moan when she bites into her first olive. Daniel glances up in time to see her licking her full lips in that unselfconscious way she has. He focuses on his grilled calamari to avoid saying anything foolish.

"Oh, guess what," Betty says, dropping a few olives on Daniel's plate for him to taste. He doesn't offer his calamari because he knows she's never been a fan, no matter how many times he forced her to try his, promising she'll like it this time. "I had my poncho shipped over here. It arrived last week."

He chuckles, popping back an olive. She's right, they're delicious. "You mean you didn't want to leave it behind as a sort of 'Betty wuz here' for everyone in the features office?"

She laughs heartily, and when the server arrives with their main courses, glancing between the two of them, Daniel knows what the guy is probably thinking: here's a date going really well.

"I thought about doing that, actually," she says, still giggling as she digs into her rice. She makes more yummy noises, and Daniel stuffs a large piece of lamb into his mouth. "But I figured the second I left, Marc would, like, burn it in effigy."

Daniel knows that isn't true. For some reason, he pictures Marc and Amanda staring up sadly at the empty space on the wall next to Marc's Adonis' of the Air Force calendar. But that scene doesn't quite make sense, because both of them have moved on to bigger and better things. He wonders how the two of them are faring: Marc with his new and much-deserved title of Creative Director, and before leaving, Daniel heard Amanda's newest client was the fourth or fifth runner up of this season's American Idol.

"I don't know about that. He'll never admit it, but I think Marc really misses you."

"I told him he would. He was one of the first people other than my family to find out if I arrived safe. He said he was just calling because Justin was at school and would have to wait until he got home to hear otherwise."

The smile on her face is fond and warm, and Daniel remembers watching the scene from a distance at her going-away party: the two of them hugging goodbye, Marc's cheek resting on Betty's shiny hair; then later they were laughing and dancing the night away with the rest of the Modies. Standing behind the glass, Daniel wished he had the fortitude to join them, to hug Betty like that, and unselfishly wish her well.

"Daniel, can I ask you something? Will you tell me the truth?"

Uh oh. Her tone is serious and hesitant. He keeps calm, although he suddenly feels very unprepared. "Always. Shoot."

"How did you know I was going to be in Trafalgar Square today?"

Oh, that. "I still read your blog. It wasn't hard to figure out that you work somewhere nearby. Especially from the entry last week. You said you were looking out your office window at the square below and wondering where all the pigeons went."

"Oh." She looks startled, probably at his reading her blog so carefully. "I guess I should be a little vaguer if I don't want to get stalked, huh?"

"Probably. I should also mention that I have some contacts at Dunne Publishing. I called around to find out where your office was. Then it was just a matter of standing around and looking for the brightest colour I could see."

"Daniel!" She gently kicks him under the table, and he suddenly hears his own voice saying, 'you're so cute when you're mortified.' "Hey, can I try some of your veggies?"

As he scoops some peppers onto her plate, the English accents around them disappear, and Daniel imagines they are at Kefi, their favourite Greek place on the Upper West Side. The last time they dined there was only a few weeks ago, right after she returned from Hilda's bachelorette party. In fact, London had been the topic of conversation that night, too. Despite his lingering jet lag and the colourful currency in his pocket, he finds it hard to fathom that they are half a world away. It's still Betty sitting across from him, smiling, being so warm and smart. But Daniel is struck suddenly by how _alone together_ they are here. Away from their families, friends, Mode, and every context they've known each other in. It's just the two of them, and Daniel, at least, has no other demands on his attention but her.

He gets the feeling Betty senses this as well. And whereas the idea fills Daniel with heady warmth, he thinks it's also the reason why his intelligent, perceptive, forthright Betty hasn't asked him yet what he is really doing in London.

"So where are you going to hang it?" Daniel asks, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation.

"The poncho?"

"Yeah. Somewhere in your apartment?"

Spearing a cucumber from her salad, Betty looks thoughtful. "I haven't decided yet."

"Can I make a suggestion?" Daniel says.

Curious, she nods. "Sure."

"Hang it in your office," he says adamantly. "Right behind your desk, so everyone sees it when they walk in."

He hopes he's not being presumptuous, but that garish piece of kitsch-wear holds a special place in his heart now, too. The first day he met her, she had resembled a colourful little bird, bumping around clumsily in a place too small to hold her enormous personality.

Although he knew intellectually all along that Mode wasn't where she was supposed to be, it strikes him deeply now, his heart sensitive from loving her. He's so damn proud of her bravery, for springing herself free. She doesn't know how easy she made it for Daniel to follow her out.

She looks at him strangely. "You think so? I'm not sure. I mean, I love the silly thing, but I don't know if that's the first thing I want people to associate with me when they come into my office."

"Remember what you said at the BLOBys? That you had to love the girl you were because she made you who you are now?" Maybe it's the low lighting in the restaurant, or just wishful thinking, but Daniel thinks her cheeks turned a little red at the 'l' word. "I just think everyone should know your story."

"But they'll only know if I tell them," she says after a pause. "The people who come into my office are business contacts. Advertisers, photographers, writers. I'm not going to sit everyone down and tell them my life story. They're just going to think I have weird taste in office decor."

Daniel smiles. He knows enough to realise that Betty is not ready to hear everything he wants to tell her yet, but he can say this much: "I guess it won't matter. Because anyone who meets you knows right away that they're talking to somebody really special. I know I did, even if I didn't appreciate you they way I should have at first. You...you make people feel lucky to know you, Betty"

For a long moment, Betty stares at the leftover rice on her plate, nudging it with her fork, and Daniel worries that he's embarrassed her. Then, quietly, she says, "Maybe I'll stick it on the wall between the two east windows. I kind of already having a painting above my desk that Christina gave me."

Daniel laughs, relieved. "Fair enough."

She giggles as well, and for the rest of dinner Betty tells him about the McKinneys' trip to London two weekends ago. Daniel finds that he is happy to hear baby William is doing well, having thought for several weeks that the little boy was his stepbrother when he was first born.

When the server reappears inquiring about dessert, Betty frowns at the menu, closes it, and asks for the bill. Daniel looks at her questioningly—she never skips dessert. Was she in a rush to leave suddenly?

She smiles mischievously and says, "Nothing on the menu speaks to me. Let's go to Leicester Square. It's only a few streets away, and there's a whole Haagen Dazs restaurant there."

He grins back, and agrees. The bill arrives and they verbally wrestle over who is to pay: Daniel is determined to win and does. Because damnit if he was going to go Dutch on a dinner he flew all the way across the Atlantic for.

Later that evening, Daniel is back on the Underground, heading west to his hotel at Knightsbridge. He's been on the train for a while now, having ridden the opposite direction with Betty to her place in Islington first. She protested when he insisted on dropping her off at home, saying that it was miles out of his way, but he was adamant. He walked her right to her front door, and hugged her goodnight before she had the chance to invite him inside out of politeness.

His teeth are fuzzy from fudgy ice cream, and he wonders if it's too soon to feel hopeful yet. He does anyway.

* * *

Betty feels like a very bad friend.

All evening, she let the conversation get steered back to herself. They talked about her job, her new colleagues, her flat, her favourite places in the city. She didn't ask Daniel a single thing about himself, nor did he offer up anything after his initial explanation about why he left Mode. Now she realises she has no idea what Daniel's plans are. Where is he staying in Knightsbridge? In a hotel? Or a property owned by his family? Does he have a job lined up? And what exactly does he mean by 'I'm going to hang around here for a while'? How the hell long is 'a while'?

She felt paralyzed by confusion all evening, and found herself going into her default settings: cheerful avoidance. A big part of her does not want to know these things; she is afraid of the implications of his answers.

You chicken, she tells herself now. This is not you.

She plops down at the kitchen table and powers up her laptop. Logging on to her email, she opens the message sent two weeks ago by Amanda. The subject line is 'Serious scoop about Daniel! HOT SHIT!'

The message is short and sweet in Amanda's own special way: _I found a chin hair today and totally thought of you. Miss your lovely lady lumps! Met any royalty yet? By the way if you're looking for those fierce neon Balenciaga strappy sandals I kind of stole them out of your suitcase but don't worry I'm a stylist now so I get a metric craptonne of free swag and there's a new pair on the way muah muah muah._

At the bottom, there's a PS.

_Bee tee doubleyou, the 100__th__ anniversary issue of Mode is out. Check out Daniel's Letter-from-the-Editor. No idea what he's going on about, but maybe he thinks his last letter needs to be cryptic and shit for the dramatic exit factor? That's right, I said LAST. Things at Mode are HECTIC, amigo, you don't even know. Webchat later if you want more details. _

Underneath is a link to the Letter-from-the-Editor page of Mode's website. She clicks it and reads it again with new eyes. When she finishes, she exits the window with a slightly shaky hand and gently shuts the laptop. Still in her coat and shoes, she sits motionless and listens to her body, trying to untangle her swirling emotions.

Her London flat is even smaller than her old apartment in Manhattan, and a lot closer to the ground; only one storey up on the second floor of an old Georgian row house just off the Islington high street. A group of kids pass by on the sidewalk, swearing loudly in the course accent she recognizes now as being native to the east end of London. A police car sounds in the distance, the European two-toned siren so different from the long wail of New York cop cars.

Two weeks ago, she was still angry and disappointed with the way Daniel left things between them. Even with Mrs. Meade's theory scratching at the back of her brain, the contents of the letter did not really compute. He's being hypothetical, she reasoned. Making a point about new beginnings. She skimmed it, avoided the topic when Hilda called after reading the issue, and had not thought about the letter until the moment she saw Daniel's vulnerable expression this morning.

Daniel's face, so familiar and dear, appears in her mind as he looked tonight: hair shining reddish in the low light of the restaurant, his eyes so blue and intense. He has never looked at her that way before, she realises. She hears his gentle voice saying, 'You make people feel lucky to know you, Betty.'

Betty presses her hands to her cheeks as they start to go warm. Her palms are damp.


	2. Chapter 2: KISS

NOTES: Thank you all kindly for the reviews of Chapter One. Every time I get an alert in my inbox, my heart skips a beat. Please keep them coming!

Honestly, I feel like this chapter is pointless and doesn't go anywhere. Also, I did an illegal point-of-view change in there somewhere, which is bad form, but I couldn't figure out how to write around it. So let me know what you think, especially about what needs improvement.

The next chapter will continue where this one stops. So much for this being a series of oneshots. Seems I might end up telling an actual story.

* * *

Chapter Two: KISS

About a week after their first dinner together in London, Betty appears in front of Daniel's table at a trendy café near his hotel, where they had arranged to meet for breakfast.

"Congratulate me," she says, "because right now I am the most awesome person you know."

Daniel raises his eyebrows, but doesn't look up from his laptop screen. "I'm fine, Betty. Thanks for asking. How are you?"

She makes an impatient sound, and drops into the chair across from him. "Ask me why I'm awesome. Go ahead."

Daniel feigns a put-upon sigh. "Gee, Betty. You seem especially awesome today. Any reason why?"

"Why yes, my friend Daniel. Would you like to know what it is?"

She is really dialling up the cute factor this Saturday morning, with the messy half-ponytail, pink heart-shaped earrings, and mile-wide grin. "Absolutely. The suspense is killing me."

"Well," she says, practically trembling with excitement, "guess who helped Dunne Publishing score their most successful web content launch for any of their publications? Before the first issue has even hit the stands?"

Daniel is grinning back. "I don't know, my friend Betty. Who could it be?"

She waves imaginary pompoms in the air. "Me!" she crows.

The cafe patrons at the next table look over curiously, and she makes a 'whoops, sorry' face at them before turning back to Daniel, practically blinding him with her high-beam smile.

"Betty, that's amazing news!" he says, shared joy racing through him. "When did you find out?"

"Literally just a few minutes ago," she says, clutching her Blackberry, the bearer of good news, to her chest. "The web developer guy was up all night after we went live at noon yesterday. He sent out a mass email just now. We broke the record for most hits in twenty-four hours after launching."

"Not that I'm surprised. You've been working your ass off," he says, boasting on her behalf. "But that's really something else."

"Isn't it?" she gushes. "Behold the power of Twitter and Facebook buzz, huh?"

Daniel holds out his hand, and raises his eyebrows hopefully. "Would it be really lame if I high-fived you right now?"

She slaps his palm, laughing at their old joke. She gives him a warm look, before her expression becomes subdued. "Daniel," she says, sounding a little awed, "I don't want to get ahead of myself—I mean, we haven't even gone to print yet—but I think this might really turn into something."

"You sound surprised," he says. He watches her closely, sensing there is something she wants to get off her chest.

She picks up the salt shaker from the table and examines it from all angles. "I guess I am surprised. Even if shouldn't be. This _is_ a Dunne publication—biggest publisher in all of Britain, after all. And God knows Mr. Dunne is pouring some serious money into making sure this thing takes off. I mean, the budget we're working with..."

"But?" Daniel prompts, gently steering her back to the point.

She sighs and sets down the salt shaker. "But, what?" she says, smiling at him ruefully. "You know me, Daniel. You know how I get."

He nods, feeling the urge to stroke her hair, or rub his thumb across the frown line between her brows. He settles for touching the back of her hand. "I do. You start to worry and doubt yourself just when things are going right."

"I do. And I know that I'm doing it," she insists. "It's just that this job is everything I ever dreamed of, professionally. It just feels a little too good to be true sometimes."

"Betty, you can't— "

She holds up her hand to interrupt him. "I know what you're going to say, and I know I'm being ridiculous. Forget I said anything. It's just stress."

Daniel had no intention of doing any such thing, but seeing as how she won't let him a word in edgewise—she has that brick wall-like, 'we're going to talk about something else now' look on her face—he decides to save the pep talk for later, when she is feeling more receptive.

"Well, if it helps make things less intimidating, I'll let you in on a secret."

She half-smiles at him, curious. "What?"

He flips the laptop around so it's facing Betty. On the screen is the website for Betty's magazine, Capital Issue_._ "At least fifty of those hits were mine. So there's not _that_ many people interested in your magazine yet."

She bursts into giggles, because they both know the number of hits is in the tens of thousands.

"So," Daniel says, feeling a little proud for making her smile, "I take it there's going to be some celebrating at work on Monday."

"Oh, for sure." Then she smiles ruefully. "Listen to me, going on like I did this all myself. Daniel, I can't tell you how amazing the people I work with are. They could've hated me for sweeping with my American accent and landing this job with so little editing experience. But everyone's been so kind and welcoming."

Daniel is about to say something about her first months at Mode, probably something apologetic even though her untainted smile tells him she is likely not even thinking about that. But her Blackberry, which she was spinning idly between her fingers, interrupts him with a ping. Checking the message, she gives a snort of laughter.

"Perfect timing," she says. "That was the web guy. Apparently we're all booked for a pint at 'the local' after work on Monday. "

"You have a 'local' already? Impressive. I need to get on that."

"Yup. I've been there every Friday night with the rest of the staff since I started. And get this: it's the same pub we came to for Hilda's bachelorette!"

Daniel sits up straight, remembering her blog post. Without thinking, he asks, "You mean the place you flashed Gio?"

She groans with embarrassment, and nods. "The very same. It was the closest place to the hotel we were staying at, which happens to be only a few streets away from the office. Just my luck."

"Small world," he says, suppressing a smirk. Not for the first time, he wishes he had come to Fashion Week with Betty. He remembers reading her blog post on the incident, half-hoping someone had uploaded a picture. Thinking about it now makes it hard to keep his eyes from dropping instinctively. Stupid lucky Gio.

"I know," she says, making an 'ugh' face. "I almost turned tail and ran out the first time my coworkers brought me there. I was convinced one of the bartenders would remember me and start spilling the story."

"But so far so good?" Daniel fights the urge to laugh uproariously. Some small part of him is comforted by the fact that goofy things still happen this sleek, fashionable woman in front of him.

"Yes. Thank God," she replies fervently.

Making a decision, Daniel shuts his laptop and starts packing it away in its sleek silver case. "Hey," he says. "Let's get out of here and do something fun."

"Oh, but we were supposed to be job hunting for you today. Look, I brought newspapers and everything," she says, digging into her purple leather satchel.

She holds up a small stack of newspapers, looking earnest. Daniel feels a warm swoop of affection, and it's all he can do to keep himself from reaching across the table, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her. He refrains, barely.

Daniel realises that he needs to work out this next stage of his life by himself, without leaning on Betty for help. It would be so easy to pull her chair over until they're sitting side by side in front of the screen. He doesn't even need to ask; he knows she would happily spend the rest of the morning helping him email resumes and tweak cover letters. He doesn't even flatter himself thinking she would only do that for him. That's just how she is, and he loves her for it. But Daniel has something to prove for once in his life, and he won't let Betty's giving nature thwart him into compliance. He wants to be the kind of put-together guy she deserves.

"First of all," he says, plucking the newspapers out of her hands, ignoring her dismayed noise as he folds them away into his laptop bag, "the job hunting thing was your idea, and I never agreed to it. I think we can find a better way to spend a beautiful"—he glances out the café window—"not raining yet Saturday than that."

She looks unconvinced. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I've been here for nearly two hours already. Nothing out there that won't keep."

She seems somewhat appeased. "I guess a Harvard degree and four years as Editor-in-Chief of a world-famous fashion magazine does kind of over qualify you for most of the stuff in the classified section."

"I'm surprised to find that, yeah, that does seem to be the case. Who knew?"

He doesn't tell her, then, that the laptop thing was mostly for show. He did most of his job hunting this past week while she was at work, and he has several interviews lined up. Before she arrived at the café, he was surfing the Capital Issue website, as well as emailing his mother, searching for properties for rent, reading the New York Times headlines, and also, bidding on a really wicked acoustic guitar on eBay. He's been thinking of getting back into it again; he hasn't picked up a guitar since that day he played for Molly after the poetry reading, when she laid herself emotionally bare to him and he felt the desire to do the same.

Pathetically, Daniel knows that if there was any doubt about whether he is truly in love with Betty, it disappeared when he felt the urge to strum out that shitty song his band wrote in high school about the girl with hair as wild and dark as a stormy desert night.

* * *

They exit the café onto busy Brompton Road. Betty is not familiar with this area personally, but looked it up when she found out Daniel was staying here. Even without Google telling her that Knightsbridge is one of the most expensive places in the world to live, she can tell it's mega ritzy: the red brick Queen Anne-style buildings house some seriously upmarket retail, and every other entranceway they pass has a gentleman in a top hat and tails manning the door.

"So, you must be enjoying London, if you're staying around here." Betty winces at the judgy in her voice. Daniel looks over at her, and she gives a friendly smile.

"To tell you the truth, this is a bit much, even for me," he says. A fleet of gleaming Rolls Royce Phantoms glide past, flanked by a police motorcade. "I asked my mom to book me into a place before I came, and this is what she came up with. I've been looking for an apartment, and I've got a few viewings on Monday."

"Flats."

He rolls his eyes. "Right, flats."

She giggles. "Hey, just helping you fit in."

As they walk, Betty observes a great number of Middle Eastern women strolling along in groups of threes and fours in this neighbourhood. Some are accompanied by a bored-looking male. Peeking from beneath their long black robes, Betty's Mode-trained eye identifies Louboutins, Choos, and Blahniks; their gloved hands are laden with shopping bags bearing similar labels. Most of the faces are covered, but those that are not are startlingly beautiful, and sporting a sheen of expertly-applied makeup.

Betty's inner journalist is intrigued, and she makes a mental note. Her mind then jumps back to something else.

"By the way. What's the second of all?" Betty asks.

Meanwhile, Daniel is pulled from his meandering thoughts; mostly he's wishing he had detoured to the hotel to drop off his laptop bag, because it is already digging into his shoulder. "Hmm?"

"Earlier. You said first of all, the job hunt was my idea, blah blah blah. What's the second of all?"

"Oh, that." What the hell, Daniel thinks. "Second of all, you look pretty today. Seems a waste for you to sit inside all day."

She gapes at him. "Oh. I do?" she asks, guilelessly.

He nods, stifling a smile. "Yeah. I like your hair like that. It suits you."

Betty fingers some loose waves framing her face, and tucks them behind her ear. "Oh. Thank you. For, um, noticing."

Interesting, Daniel thinks to himself. Over the years, he's come up with hundreds of verbose ways to compliment a woman's appearance, most of them composed entirely of bullshit. The last time he simply told a woman she was pretty was probably Miss Li, the teacher he had an agonizing crush on back in sixth grade.

"You're welcome," he says. "By the way, am I leading here? Because I have no idea where we are."

Her self-consciousness fades in the face of his goofiness. They stop in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the other pedestrians who continue to flow past them.

Betty looks around, orienting herself using the nearest street signs. "Okay," she says, pointing up the road. "We could do the obvious and check out Harrods."

The elaborately Victorian building dominates the entire south side of the road, and continues around the corner. Underneath the green hood-like awnings, the long stretch of display cases feature a Roaring '20s theme, with mannequins wearing designer flapper dresses and vintage diamond necklaces. The Rolls Royces from earlier are parked in a row on the street in front of the main entrance.

Daniel nods slowly. "Or?"

She sighs in relief. "Oh, thank God. My wallet was about to make a run for it."

He laughs. "What are our other options?"

"Well," she says, looking at him uncertainly, "it's not super exciting, but Hyde Park is close by. We could go for a walk? Since it's a not-raining-yet day?"

The laptop bag suddenly feels weightless, like he could carry it around all day. "That sounds perfect."

Shoulders brushing, they cross the street and head north. As they stroll down the busy streets, heading to wherever Betty is taking them, Daniel smiles inwardly at the way she is looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He thinks there is something to that old saying, Keep It Simple, Stupid.


	3. Chapter 3: Flying and Falling

DISCLAIMER: Still not mine.

NOTES: As always, thank you for the delightful, encouraging reviews. I also want to thank Anne a.k.a. **dogsled** for all the wonderful conversations we've had recently about writing (as well as other fun things, LOL!). It's really encouraged me to get better and stay motivated through the rough patches of this chapter. As I'm sure you all agree, she's an inspirational writer and we're all very lucky she's treating the Ugly Betty fandom to her amazing talent!

An enormous thank you to **naug296** for beta-reading! And for pointing out the issue about Daniel legally working in the UK. Nice catch.

I had a very, very difficult time with this chapter, so please let me know what you think. Chapter 4 will finally delve properly into Betty's pretty little head. Now that I've actually figured out what's going on in it.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE: FLYING AND FALLING

The rest of Betty and Daniel's Saturday morning is spent roaming lush, enormous Hyde Park. They enter from the southwest corner through a towering gate which—to Daniel—looks exactly like all the other dramatic angel-topped arches that every European city seems to have one or more of. They glance at a map of the perfectly rectangular park grounds, both commenting that this must be London's version of Central Park, as it is large and confusing with paths that lead in all directions, and then split off into even more paths.

They pick one at random, and stroll amiably. Daniel notices that Betty doesn't let silence linger between them for more than a moment, which is why they are currently discussing the merits of Prêt a Manger sandwiches in London versus New York.

"They put something funny in the horseradish sauce here. I'm telling you, it burns."

Betty rolls her eyes. "Lightweight."

"And plus, they don't have the cookie heater thing here. Come on, you gotta give me that one."

"Okay fine. That, I agree with—I love those hot cookies. One point against Prêt in London. But have you tried their chocolate mousse?"

"Forget that. Three words: King prawn and pickle. Why would anyone..."

Mid-sentence, Daniel stops and realizes he's talking to himself. Turning around, he sees Betty lagging behind at a bicycle ice cream cart. The teenage boy manning the cart is watching Betty with rapt attention as she digs into the pockets of her extremely flattering darkwash skinny jeans for change. She beams in thanks when the boy hands over two treats, and he actually tips his baseball hat at her like some Dickens newsboy, all red-faced. Chuckling, Daniel goes to join her, but she is already jogging back up the path. Her purple satchel bounces against her hip, and she is bearing a wrapped Popsicle in each hand.

She reaches him, and holds both icy confections out. "Lemon or blackcurrant? Take your pick."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Which one do you want?"

"Which one do _you_ want?" she counters, wiggling the Popsicles enticingly.

"I want the one you don't want."

She rolls her eyes. "You're annoying. Fine. I want to try this one. We don't get blackcurrant flavoured stuff back home."

Daniel accepts the lemon one and unwraps it, folding the wrapper around the bottom of the stick to catch the drips. His shirt today is a crisp, clean white, and he'd like to keep it that way.

"Thanks," he says, crunching off a big bite from the top. "I haven't had a Popsicle in years."

"Excuse you. It's called an 'ice lolly' here," Betty replies in silly tone. "When are you going to stop sounding like such an American?"

"I know," he says. "I mean, it's been a whole week. What's wrong with me?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel watches Betty take the dark purple Popsicle—ice lolly—between her lips and suck. In the space of two seconds, his imagination flashes through about a thousand inappropriate words and images; nothing is clear or coherent, but it's enough to cause his abdominal muscles to clench in response.

Embarrassed at the adolescent strength of his reaction, and certain that it is written on his face, he looks away to the greenery lining the path, but the image is burned in his brain.

A few young guys in shorts are kicking a soccer ball back and forth on the lush green lawn. A pass is fumbled, and the ball skitters across the path in front of them.

Betty looks at Daniel, down at her open-toed wedges, and back up at Daniel.

He laughs, relieved for the distraction. "My ball, I guess. Here, hold this."

Handing Betty the remains of his ice cream, Daniel jogs up to the ball, positions himself behind it, and sends it flying in a low, powerful arc across the field to the furthest player. Receiving the ball neatly, the player calls out "Cheers, mate!" and resumes the game with his friends. Daniel nods back and joins Betty.

Looking impressed, she hands Daniel back his dripping Popsicle. "Nice kick. I didn't know you played soccer."

He is secretly pleased that she, too, thought that was a pretty slick move. "Sure. I played on the team in high school, and a little in college, too. And don't you mean 'football'?"

"Ha ha. Finish your ice lolly, it's going to ruin your shirt in a minute," she replies, polishing off the remains of hers. "I thought rowing was your thing in college."

"Yeah, it was towards the end. When my dad found out the rowing team was where they kept most of the high-up faculty members' kids."

"What?" Betty asks, frowning. She chews on the stick the same way he's seen her ruin the tops of many pens over the years.

"I was on academic probation. Get friendly with the associate dean's son, the department head's son, he said."

She nods. "Ah. And did that work?"

"Nope. I met Connor Owens, and he helped get me through my last year completely legit."

She snorts, chucking the bare stick and wrapper into a garbage can as they pass. "Ironic."

Daniel shakes his head, wondering why he brought this up. It's not a period of his life he's particularly proud of. Hindsight being what it is, he knows now that that he had what it took to really rock his Harvard degree, but at the time he was much too caught up in a head-spinning whirlwind of sex, booze, and inferiority issues to see this about himself. Even then, it wasn't until he met Betty and slowly figured out what she was trying to tell him with her disappointed looks: 'you have potential, why are you wasting it like this?'

He thinks it might be a little pathetic to be having these types of life-altering revelations at his age, but figures better late than never. You're only as old as you feel, and right now, with the spring breeze moulding his shirt to his chest, the taste of lemonade on his tongue, and a girl he's wild about turning him on just by tossing her hair a certain way...

"Seriously, Daniel. That's a really white shirt."

Regarding his rapidly melting dessert, Daniel decides the best course of action is to attack. He turns it sideways and crunches the remaining ice off the stick, which results in a painful brain freeze. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. "Ow. Dammit. Forgot you aren't supposed to do that."

Betty winces in sympathy. "Hits you right between the eyes."

Daniel shoots her a wounded puppy look. Without thinking, he says, "Kiss it better?"

Betty does a double-take, eyes wide. In a moment, the air between them becomes charged and thick and uncomfortable.

_Nice one, jackass_, he thinks to himself, still holding his forehead stupidly. He tries to think of a way to backpedal, but his mind has completely blanked. "Um..."

She gives a nervous little closed-mouth laugh. "Oh, you're fine, you big baby. Walk it off."

Daniel feels at a loss about what to do next, too busy picturing throwing himself off one of the turrets of Tower Bridge.

"Daniel!" Betty cries suddenly, clutching his arm

"What? What's wrong?" he asks, concerned. He has no idea what she's going to say, but he fears the worst.

"I just thought of something!" She halts them both in their tracks, and steps in front of him. Her eyes are enormous. "How are you going to get a job?"

Leaning back, he looks at her funny. "Are we back to that again?"

"No. I mean yes! Daniel, are you even cleared to work in the UK?" she asks, looking stricken. "Legally, I'm talking about. Me, I have a work visa through Dunne Publishing, but I had that taken care of before I even got here. What are you going to do?"

Especially in light of his faux pas, Daniel is once again touched by her concern, and also charmed by the way she is clutching his arm like he's going to get deported if she lets go. Her expression is so dramatic that he wants desperately to laugh, but holds it in.

"Don't worry. I'm all clear on that front. I'm not here illegally or anything."

She frowns at him, but releases his forearm. "Okay. Explain."

"I have a British passport."

Betty reels back. "What? How? I know for a fact you were born and raised in New York."

"I was, but that doesn't matter. It's pretty cool, actually. Turns out if you have a grandparent who was born in the UK, you can get a temp passport. I'm all clear for the next five years if I want."

"Oh. I see." She looks contrite, probably for assuming that he wasn't responsible enough to look into this before coming. "Which one of your grandparents is from here, then?"

"Paternal grandmother," he replies. She doesn't comment on the long-term nature of his legal status, he notices. "She was Irish, from somewhere near Belfast. Can't remember where. She came to the States as a kid, and grew up in Boston."

"Is she still alive?" Betty asks, looking interested.

Daniel shakes his head. "No. I never met her. She died when my dad was barely two."

"So your father was...?"

"Raised by his stepmother, yeah. Well, the nanny his stepmother hired. It's kind of a family tradition."

"How did I not know this?" Betty asks. "We've talked about this before, haven't we?"

Daniel shrugs, and resumes their walk. "I don't know. I guess it never came up. Three quarters of my grandparents are dead, anyway."

"Yeah. And I've met your Grandpa Jack."

Daniel cringes. "Three years later, and I still feel I need to apologize for that."

"Don't. It's nice that he has so much...character at his age."

Daniel looks at her askance.

"Okay," she concedes, "so maybe I could've done without an eighty-year old man trying to reach second base with me while I delivered him his Christmas presents in rehab. But he's old. He's just looking for fun where he can find it."

"I'm still sorry."

"Don't worry. My big holiday bonus that year totally made—oh, look! There it is!"

Dropping the conversation again, Betty rushes ahead, leaving Daniel with a flat expression on his face.

In the centre of a clearing up ahead, atop a raised stone platform, stands an ornate sculpture about eight or nine feet tall. Betty hops up onto the platform to run her fingers along the elaborate bronze surface.

Daniel moves closer to examine it himself. The base of the sculpture is a tree trunk that appears to be bursting out of the ground; its surface is ornamented with little winged angels dressed in flowing period outfits, feeding rabbits and squirrels. Perched on top of the tree trunk is the figure of a child. Dressed in an old-fashioned tunic, he—or maybe she, Daniel can't tell—is posed with one foot in front of the other. The right hand stretches out elegantly in a beckoning gesture, while the left holds a long, thin flute to his lips.

"I don't get it," Daniel says, watching Betty circle around the statue. She seems not to hear him, so he speaks louder. "Who's the kid?"

Betty peers around from behind the sculpture, her expression similar to the mischievous faces of the little angels. "We crossed into Kensington Gardens, Daniel."

"So?"

"Can't you tell?" She stands beside him, and tilts her head far back to peer up at the bronze child, her long hair tumbling down her back. Her expression is sweet with wonder. "He's Peter Pan."

He sees now that the little angels are in fact fairies, and they're not feeding the animals—they're talking to them. The hem of the boy's metal tunic is frayed and torn, and his feet are bare.

He nods, his heart skipping a beat at the soft smile on her face. "Oh yeah. I see it"

Betty crosses her arms, grasping her elbows. She heaves a pleasant sigh. "I read about this and I've always wanted to see it. Supposedly, when they erected the statue in the early 1900s, they did it secretly in the middle of the night—so when people visited the park the next morning, it looked like he appeared here by magic. J.M. Barrie himself picked this spot."

Daniel runs his fingers along the smooth metal folds of a fairy's skirt, vaguely recalling the author's name from that Johnny Depp biopic a few years ago. "Why here?"

"Because he described this exact place in his first story about Peter Pan. Kensington Gardens, halfway up the Long Water lake on the west bank," she recites. "This is where Peter first appears from Neverland."

He smiles at her hushed story-telling voice. "I take it you were a fan as a kid?"

"Oh, the biggest," she gushes. "I loved the Disney version, of course. But I also had this beautiful picture book somebody gave me for my birthday once. I can't even remember who it was from, but it must've come from a rare books store because it was all old and frayed even when I got it. I was so young, but I remember Papi wasn't impressed someone gave me a used gift for my birthday."

Daniel laughs. "I can see that."

She grins. By a mutual, unspoken decision, they sit down on a nearby bench in front of the lake, still in view of the statue. "I know. But I loved it. If it were up to me, I would've flipped through the pictures twenty times a day and carried it everywhere. But my mother knew it was something special, so she kept it on this high self in the living room where I couldn't reach, even with a chair."

He nods, and unable to resist, asks, "So you've never experienced a time in your life when you weren't miniature?"

She whacks him on the shoulder, and laughing, he feigns a severe blow. Wanting to hear more about Betty's mother, he asks, "So did she ever take it down and let you read it?"

"Oh, I couldn't read it myself. It's a really long book, and I was way too young. But Mami used to take it down every night for weeks after I got it, and we'd read it together and admire the pictures. Her English wasn't great, so we'd only get through a few pages at a time." Betty smiles, pulling one knee up on the bench and resting her chin on top. "I can still hear her reading these really old-fashioned British phrases like 'raconteur of repute' with her rolling Mexican 'r's."

Betty's expression is serene and content as she stares out at the lake, but for some reason Daniel feels a pang of sadness at the picture she presents.

"I loved that story," she goes on in a whisper, seemingly to herself. "Pirates, fairies, mermaids. Sometimes, I'd wish so badly for some fairy dust so I could just...fly away. Live in the clouds. Never grow up."

Daniel nods. He thinks over what he knows about her childhood, and this doesn't surprise him: watching her mother die slowly of cancer, supporting a pregnant teenage sister, and later helping raise an infant when she herself was practically still a child—all the while dealing with crippling financial problems that Daniel knows he could never understand.

And given the way she was treated at Mode, he can guess that her school life was probably hell, too. The Kimmie Keegan incident—which mishandled so badly it shames him now—made that pretty clear.

The pang of sadness becomes a lump in his throat. Betty seems miles away from this bench, and he wants to touch her, bring her back to him. But he waits.

She turns to look at him, her cheek resting on her jean-clad knee. Quietly, she says, "I think that I hung on to that wish for a long time. Way longer than I should have. It was childish."

He shakes his head. "Don't say that."

"But it's true, Daniel." Around them, children shriek and ducks quack and the wind rustles the willow leaves, but another unspoken decision has them speaking in hushed tones. "I was so...naive for such a long time. I think about most of my time at Mode, and I feel like I'm remembering myself as a kid."

"Not naive. You had dreams, Betty. Beautiful ones. And ideals. All of that is what got you here," Daniel says, although a part of him understands what she means. He recognizes her demeanour as the reason why he didn't ever see Betty in a womanly light before the past few months. Not her clothes or hair or braces. It's like what she said about Henry—he and Betty were in two very different places for a very long time, despite being the best of friends.

A tiny voice in the back of his head wonders if they still are, and if she's left him behind.

She nods sideways, her own eyes a little wet. "It's just...I've spent so much time dreaming big. About one day working on a magazine that really speaks to me, writing about inspiring things, living a fabulous independent life in a new city. But now I see that there's all this prosaic stuff to deal with, too."

"Like what?"

She sighs and wraps her arms a little tighter around her calf. "Awful homesickness. Not understanding the tax codes on my paystubs. Heading meetings with advertisers and investors, and trying to convince them I have some idea what I'm doing."

"Well, I'm sure you picked up lots of tips on how _not_ to head a meeting from watching me." He nudges her with his shoulder. "And these guys couldn't possibly be worse than pitching to Wilhelmina."

"That's true. They have nothing on a Slater-St. James double team session," she says, giving a wet laugh. Her smile fades, and she looks out at the lake again. "After all that dreaming, I'm just afraid of letting people down. Of letting myself down."

"You won't," Daniel replies with conviction. "Betty, Lindsay Dunne himself came to New York to steal you away from m-, uh, Mode, because he saw what an amazing talent you are. That guy is like the British version of my Dad. You know someone like Bradford Meade wouldn't have done that for just anybody. "

"I know. I know all of this in my head."

"I told you this once before, but you're not the same girl I met four years ago." He pictures that day on the bridge almost a year ago, and marvels how much things have changed. "You've really come into your own."

She nods awkwardly on her knee. "I guess it's true what the story says. Only Peter can stay young forever. Everybody else has to grow up eventually."

"Maybe. But in the best ways, you're still the same."

She beams him a full smile. He thinks that even though her teeth look different, the way her smile makes him feel is one of those best things that hasn't changed. "Not to kill a metaphor, but you're not a Lost Boy anymore either, Daniel. You've changed so much since I've known you."

"I hope so." He doesn't know what else to say.

"It's scary," she says, "but...I guess I don't have to wish anymore."

"You don't. Because Betty," he says, leaning in a little, "you got your wish. You _are_ flying. Look where you are."

To emphasise his point, Daniel sweeps his arm over the landscape around them: the weeping willows on the shoreline drip their limbs into the lake, where couples in rented row boats are gliding across the still water. The Serpentine Bridge arches across a narrow section of the lake like a water creature. Peter's solemn bronze face watches them as if to say, _how perplexing you grownups are_. And beyond that, endless opportunities extend in all directions.

Betty's eyes follow the arc of his arm, taking everything in. Slowly, she nods. "I'm in London."

"You're in London."

"And I'm flying."

Daniel smiles, thinking back again to his first impression of Betty. "Like a bird."

She laughs a little incredulously. "Oh, God, Daniel. I think this has been on my mind since Mr. Dunne made me the offer back in New York. I don't know what's wrong with me. Turns out it's a little scary actually getting what you've always wanted."

He wants to gather her up and press her close, so that everything that confuses her or scares her or makes her sad has to get through him first. He's always felt that way about her in some capacity. But he knows it doesn't work that way. She doesn't need that from him.

Daniel thinks that if he got what he wanted right at this moment, scared is the last thing he'd be feeling. But he also beginning to understand that what he wants and what Betty wants are, at the moment, two very different and unrelated things.

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?" she asks.

"That invalidating your feelings thing," he responds disapprovingly. "It's okay to feel anxious. Remember what a mess of nerves I was when I started at Mode? How many times did you have to talk me off the ledge?"

Betty giggles, and his heart jumps a little. "A few."

"And this opportunity means so much more to you than Mode ever did to me. Most of that was just me trying not to disappoint my father. It had nothing to do with achieving any life goals."

She looks at him sincerely. "I don't ever want to belittle my time there, Daniel..."

"You're not," he interrupts. "But it was a stepping stone. Capital Issue is where you belong."

Betty nods, and smiles at him softly. "Thank you. For listening. For understanding."

"Always, Betty."

They lapse into silence for a moment, enjoying a few scattered shafts of sunlight peeking out from behind the cloud cover. A small family of four are admiring the statue; the young mother and father are making a cell phone video of their little boys climbing up the footholds of the bronze tree trunk. The older boy makes it to the top, and the parents laugh as he pretends to have a conversation with Peter. Betty giggles quietly with them.

_Shit_, Daniel thinks with a note of finality.

"It sounds to me," he says carefully, glancing over at her, "like you've got a lot on your mind lately."

Meeting his gaze, she slowly nods. In her pretty brown eyes, he sees everything he loves about her—her kindness, sincerity, warmth, intelligence—and all of it suddenly seems beyond his reach.

Betty sits up straight, setting her foot back down on the ground, and Daniel knows what is coming next. A part of him has known since the moment he arranged to bump into her in Trafalgar Square, when she greeted his appearance undoubtedly with happiness, but also with uncertainty and a touch of wariness.

"Daniel...we need to talk."

"We do," he agrees, seriously doubting his ability to make it through this conversation. "But first, I need to apologize."

Her shoulders droop in surprise, and he has a sneaking suspicion that she was about to deliver something rehearsed. It wouldn't be the first time. That's his Betty; hurting people is so out of her nature that she has to practice. "For what?"

"For the way I treated you before you left New York. I was a complete asshole, and I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she says. "Water under the bridge."

"It's not okay," he retorts, harsher than he meant. "I just...it was really hard for me to say goodbye to you. Impossible actually, hence..." he gestures vaguely at himself, indicating his presence here thousands of miles away from where he should be.

Betty turns on the bench until she is facing him completely. Daniel can't bring himself to do the same, and he continues to stare at the lake. She reaches out, and gently wraps her hand around his where it rests on his knee. He feels that lump in his throat again, but squeezes her fingers anyway.

"I read your letter." She sounds like she's fighting a lump of her own. "In the 100th anniversary issue."

"Ah." Not that he regrets it, but weeks later, he's still unsure what compelled him to go through with publishing it. "When?"

"Two weeks before you arrived. Amanda emailed me when it came out."

"So you've known this whole week...?"

"Yes. No. I mean, I don't _know_ anything. I'm just...Okay, wait. Let me try this again. Daniel, what you wrote...it means so much to me and—"

Unable to watch her flounder helplessly, Daniel mirrors her pose on the bench and presses his fingers to her mouth. He isn't sure what brought on the impulse, but this, he regrets. The sensation of her soft, full lips under his fingers isn't going to leave him any time soon. Her eyes widen behind her glasses, but she doesn't brush his hand away. Their other hands are still intertwined on his knee, and he is aware of the sweet picture they must make to passers-by. He wants to kiss her so badly his lips actually ache.

"Betty, I'm in love with you."

Her eyes flutter shut, and her brows come together in a heartbreaking expression. He removes his hand, and she whispers, "How?"

"Easily."

"Why?"

He smiles at her tenderly, squeezing her hand. "Why not?"

She pulls her hand away, abruptly standing up and moving to the water's edge. Daniel follows her, his heart in his stomach.

"Why didn't you say anything before? In New York?"

"Because I didn't realize until you were leaving how much you meant to me," he answers honestly, watching her profile. "And once I did, I thought it would be a really douchey move to throw something like that at you. I didn't want to confuse you while you were making this huge decision."

"Well, I'm still confused," she replies, twisting her fingers together as she avoids his eyes. "How did things change like this? I mean, we're just Betty and Daniel. We've never even considered..."

"I could give you a million reasons, but I don't think that will help clear up things for you."

Her fingers go still. She finally looks up at him, and he recognises the heartbreaking expression on her face: it's an apology.

"God, Daniel. It's so hard for me to say this, especially after all the wonderful things you've been saying all after—"

Daniel decides to rip off this mother of a Bandaid quick. "Betty, it's okay. I'm starting to get that this might be a case of incredibly shitty timing."

She shakes her head and holds up her hand, looking at him imploringly. "Let me finish. Daniel, I know you understand how much stuff is crammed in my head right now. All these huge changes…"

He nods, wondering if he should wait until tomorrow to catch a flight back to New York, or see if he can grab something tonight. If he doesn't wait, he can be utterly shitfaced at the Beer Hole or the Bear Hole by midnight.

"I meant it when I said I'm so glad you're here," she continues. "But I'm afraid of what changing things between us might do to our friendship."

"We could be really good together," he tries, his voice cracking.

"Or we could really mess everything up." Her eyes fill with tears. "I just...I need you in my life so much, Daniel. You're one of my best friends. But I don't think I can give you any more than that right now."

"Okay." He nods slowly, numbly. "Okay. But, um, just to be clear...is that a no forever?"

"I don't know, Daniel. I just...I need time. I hardly know which way is up right now." She begins to cry in earnest, pressing her hands to her cheeks. Any inclination he had to run off back to New York disappears. He doesn't think he could leave her now even if she told him to. "Please, let's not change anything between us right now. Can we please just be Team Betty and Daniel for now? Or is it unfair of me to ask that?"

_Yes_, he wants to holler. _Why?_ _Why can't I have you?_ But he is unable to maintain any semblance of standoffishness in the face of her distress. He pulls her into a tight hug, pressing his cheek to her temple. "We'll always be Team Betty and Daniel. Whatever else does or doesn't happen, that will never change."

"I'm so sorry," she whispers into his chest. "I'm sorry I can't give you a straight answer. I'm sorry if I sound...I don't know, emotionally manipulative. I don't mean to be."

Her small, soft body presses against his so perfectly. "Betty, manipulative is the last word I would ever use to describe you."

"Thank you." She takes a deep breath, but tightens her grip on his shirt. "But where does this leave us now?"

Over Betty's head, he catches Peter's eye.

_Everyone grows up eventually_, Daniel thinks to himself. _Even me._

A part of him is howling at the unfairness of it all. But all those years, Betty was there for him through everything. Now it's his turn to be the rock.

"Where we always were. Friends. Let's just hang out and enjoy London," Daniel holds her close and breathes in deeply the scent of her hair—this memory is going to have to last him a while. "Just think of me as your little piece of home."

* * *

They part ways soon after that conversation, needing space. Back in Knightsbridge, Daniel enters the lobby of his hotel. The doorman greets him by name, but Daniel doesn't see him. Any other time, he would be appalled at his own rudeness.

He rides the elevator up to the fourth floor, and swipes the key card into his room. Once inside, he strips off his jacket, shoes, and jeans. As an afterthought, he goes back out into the hallway, heedless of his state of dress, and hangs the Do Not Disturb sign.

Then he draws the blinds, crawls into bed, and sleeps until Monday afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4: Seeking a Second Opinion

DISCLAIMER: Nothing you recognise belongs to me. This is a work of fiction written solely for entertainment purposes. No money is being made.

NOTES: Sorry it still took me a few weeks to post, but holy damn, this is a long ass chapter. Almost 7000 words.

The graffiti art described below is inspired by street artist Banksy's work. Londoners will be familiar with him, but I'd encourage everyone to take a minute and Google his work. It's pretty cool.

Speaking of Google, I had a lot of fun researching and refreshing my memory with the Street View feature for this chapter (although I took some artistic liberties). If you're curious, I imagine Betty living in Dagmar Terrace.

And a giant thank you to **Anne **for helping me add some authenticity to this thing using her experience in magazine publishing. I know nothing about the field or its intricacies, so I credit all the technical details in the opening scene to her. As well as the John Lennon thing.

My motivation level is in direct proportion to the feedback I get, so please keep it coming.

_Edit: So I'm dumb. I spent the half of the previous chapter playing on the theme of Peter Pan and growing up, and trying to be very clever about it. And then I go and name a one-off background character 'Peter' as well. What the hell. Anyway, so I changed his name to Kenneth because later in the chapter I mention 'the magic of Peter' and I don't want you guys picturing this random scatterbrained office worker intruding in on Betty and Daniel's moment in the park. This is why I need to not post at 3 in the morning._

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR: SEEKING A SECOND OPINION

"Betty, these proofs. Where d'you want them?"

"On my desk is fine, Kenneth. Thanks."

Kenneth, in his usual scatterbrained manner, sets the file on the shelf by the door to Betty's office. Betty rolls her eyes. Honestly, sometimes. Lucky for him he's such an expert with the layout software. And that everyone, including Betty, kind of loves him because he comes in early to decorate people's desks on their birthdays.

"Oh, by the way. What's her name, that tall one who sits next to Andrew..."

"Ruby." And yet he remembers _birthdays_?

"Right, Ruby. She just told me they sold another full page, but the dummy's already gone up. She asked me to find out what you want to cut."

Betty draws a blank, and her stomach drops. _I should know this. Quick, answer him._ But the harder she urges herself to think, the more anxious she becomes, and soon it's like a windblown tundra inside her head.

_Snap out of it_, she thinks. _You can do this_. Thinking creatively on her feet is what distinguished her at Mode. She's not going to let that talent abandon her now.

She could cut a page out of the John Lennon Retrospective feature, but that means Peter would have to redesign it, and with everything else pending on his desk, she doesn't entirely trust him to remember. Plus she'd have to figure out what which paragraphs should go. Probably the best option would be to cut a page of Calendar listings. Lose a few events, cut a photo or two. She could do this herself with one phone call to Leslie, the Calendar editor.

Problem solved.

"Tell Leslie—the redhead wearing the blue dress—to call me when she gets back from lunch. I'll go over it with her."

Kenneth exits her office. Betty exhales a breath and sinks down in her chair, feeling a little proud. Then she reminds herself not to relax; there's a lot more of that coming.

Her red poncho hangs on the east wall between two windows. As expected, it elicited all sorts of questions from her staff when she hung it up, but the gist of her answer is always the same—it reminds me of who I am and where I came from. Naturally, the assumption is that it's a cultural token celebrating her Mexican heritage. Which is also true, but Betty's not sure how to explain its deeper significance, or even if she should.

She recalls Daniel's sweet words about the poncho over that first dinner, and her heart aches terribly thinking about him. She stares at her Blackberry on the desk blotter, willing herself to just pick it up and text him. Ask him to meet for a coffee so she can find out how his job-hunting and flat-searching is going. Enquire about his mother, about Alexis and DJ. Tease him about hitting a tanning bed, because his fair skin must be pale as paper by now in this climate.

But is that the right thing to do? Is it selfish? Betty doesn't have a clue. All she knows is that she misses him. She never imagined her relationship with Daniel—bighearted, protective, boyish Daniel—would ever become this complicated. For years, their friendship has been a steady constant in her rather chaotic life. With the exception of a few serious arguments, she always knew where they stood with one another. Now, not so much.

Betty picks up the phone and begins composing a text, typing so hard she chips a thumbnail. She pauses. Suddenly, she feels a desperate need to file the scratchy nail before it catches on her pantyhose. Closing the message without saving it, Betty searches her desk drawer for a file.

Who is she, Amanda? Of course she doesn't keep a nail file handy. A quick glance at the doorway, and thumbnail goes between her teeth.

Daniel said nothing between them had to change. But how could it possibly not?

She felt wrung out, guilty and utterly confused after their conversation in Hyde Park, but she also finds herself taking heart in his words of support. Every day she is becoming a little less anxious about the enormous expectations on her plate, and more positive about her ability to meet them. Words and pictures and pages are coming together into something she can't wait to hold in her hand. The IT guy gleefully texts her the latest hit count at the end of every day. Next week, the BBC's Arts and Culture reporters are coming in to film a short news segment about London's most buzzed-about new publication. To her embarrassment, Mr. Dunne has asked Betty to contribute to the interview alongside Capital Issue's dynamic Editor-in-Chief, Francisca Asante.

Meanwhile, the clock is ticking down to the big launch. There's so much to do until then.

Betty's phone sits untouched. She cannot think about this right now. She's disappointed as hell with herself for the way she's handling this thing with Daniel, but she will never forgive herself if she becomes distracted from what she came here to do. Daniel has to understand that, and part of her recognizes that he does. It's the reason why he hasn't called or texted either. The ball is firmly in her court.

The thumbnail goes in the garbage and she taps her laptop out of the screensaver. Despite everything, she feels a thrill of excitement when she opens a new email from the art department. Attached are the accompanying photos for the feature on London's underground graffiti art scene. The politically-charged images are crisp and alive, and one photo in particular thrills her with its striking elegance: a CCTV camera points at the words 'WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?' spray-painted in block print on a grimy cement wall. Underneath the tag, a camera effect reduces the crowd of pedestrians to a frenetic motion blur, contrasting nicely the stark words hanging over their heads.

Betty responds to the email, praising the department for their stunning work. She begins working through the twenty or so emails accumulated in her inbox, reminding herself it's really time to get around to hiring that assistant, and then starts in on her own piece.

Around 2:30, her Blackberry pings, startling her out of the zone. Her stomach rumbles angrily. Without realizing it, she's worked straight through her lunch hour.

The text is from Christina: _Busy week for u 2? Will ring u 2nite. Lots to catch up on. LU. –C_

"Definitely," Betty murmurs out loud. She heads for the break room, hoping someone else is taking a late lunch. She could use some company.

* * *

Later that evening, Betty exits Angel tube station. She is nearly swallowed up by the rush hour commuter crowd, but being a New Yorker through and through, she makes liberal use of her elbows to find her way out.

She lives towards the north end of the Upper Street, also known as the Islington High Street, also known as the A1 motorway—all of which served to confuse the hell out of Betty when she was searching online for a place to live. Once again, she marvels at the left-brain strength the cabs drivers here must possess.

Like back in New York, Betty carries a change of shoes in her oversized purse. The minute she steps out of the office for the day, the power heels come off and the perfectly broken-in red ballet flats go on with a sigh. The practice lets her enjoy the commute home, and today is no exception. Ever since she came to London, Betty finds herself arriving home much later than expected each night. Her little corner of London is full of interesting sights and sounds, and she often wanders leisurely instead of heading straight to her flat. Sometimes she snaps photos with the digital camera she's taken to carrying around everywhere, and posts them later on her blog.

Reasonably, she knows there's nothing _really_ special about the neighbourhood—it's pretty middle class, if that. There are convenience stores, banks, letting agent offices and shady-looking kebab places up and down both sides of the street. But she thrills in the newness, and on her solo walks home, Betty absorbs details that the locals' eyes skim over: the pretty green and red doors of the old brown row houses, the tiny and charming picture framing shop, the funny names of pubs like The Agricultural and The Old Queens Head. One little cafe near her flat seems to be a hotspot for artsy, grungy Pete Doherty-types in skinny jeans.

Walking past it now, she ducks her head because every day it's like clockwork.

"Oi! Come on then, darling!" Wolf whistles, today from a guy with a pint each hand and two cigarettes in his mouth. His friends are equally grubby, and one guy's hair reminds her of Jesse. "Join us for a drink?"

Betty keeps walking, biting back a smile.

"Awww. You're breaking my heart!"

She turns into her gem of a lane. One side of the road is made up of three-storey terraced houses with pretty white windowsills and flowerboxes; the other side is a leafy little square with benches and a statue of—unsurprisingly—an angel in the centre. Betty hasn't had the time yet, but she looks forward to spending a Sunday morning there with a good book.

Betty is struggling with the aggravating lock when her Blackberry rings from deep within the recesses of her purse. She unearths it just before it goes to voicemail, dropping her keys in the dark landing in the process.

"Caught you at a bad time, love?"

"Christina! Hey! No, just having a klutz attack." She locates the keys, and wrestles her way inside and up the stairs. "How are you?"

"Oh, fine. The usual. The baby's driving me mad. So's William."

Betty snorts. Coat gets hung up, keys dropped in a bowl on the table. "Stuart's still at home?"

"Yes. And apparently his life's goal is to de-bubble every wallpapered surface in our home."

"So he's being helpful around the house. Isn't that a good thing?"

"We just did the walls at Christmas! And now he's bloody taking it all down again!"

Betty smiles. "Oh, don't be such a grouch, Christina. The poor guy just lost his job. He needs to keep busy. At least he's not vegging in front of the TV all day, right?"

Opening her laptop on the small round breakfast table, she performs her nightly ritual of signing onto Skype. Nobody is online yet, but she leaves it connected. She potters around the small flat, winding down for the evening as she listens to Christina complain about how 'helpful' Stuart has been since getting laid off last month from his job as a general contractor.

"I'd rather he wear a hole in the sofa with his bum watching the football," Christina says. "You can't sell a house that looks like a lot of gremlins have been set loose in it."

Betty pauses from emptying the dish rack, startled. "What?"

"Oh. Didn't I tell you?"

"No! Christina! You're moving?"

"We are."

"But why? You've only been living in that house for two years. You love the place. _I_ love the place. It's so quaint and...Scottish."

"Oh, just thought it was the right time. Property values are going up, the recession is supposedly on its way out. So the talking heads on the telly say."

Betty makes a weird face. "So I've heard. I don't understand. Can you afford to move with Stuart out of work?" A thought occurs to her. "Oh my God. You guys didn't, like, _gamble_ the house away, did you?"

"No! Betty! It's just really a very lucrative market at the moment," Christina goes on. "Got to think about our future, you know. Go where opportunity takes you. You know all about that, of course."

Hearing the smile in Christina's voice, a shimmer of excitement starts in her belly. "Okaaay. That sounds very...fiscally responsible of you. So where are you guys going? Somewhere else in Edinburgh?"

A beat of silence. Betty clutches some spatulas to her chest.

"Oh, bugger the suspense. Betty, we're moving to London!"

Betty drops the spatulas on the floor, whips the phone in front of her face and screams at the top of her lungs. Christina does the same on the other end.

"Oh my _God_! I can't believe it! I mean, you mentioned it was a _possibility_, but...!"

"I know! I lied! We've been planning this for months!"

"Stuart never got laid off, did he? You dishonest little so-and-so!" Betty squeals joyously.

"No, he didn't, you gullible little muppet! He quit because he's starting his own independent contracting business with a partner in London!"

"And the reason you've been coming down here so often isn't because Victoria Beckham wants you to design her outfit for the VMAs, is it?"

"Oh no, that part's true. She remembered me from Mode. We did lunch once as well. Well, I did lunch and she sort of inhaled the fumes from my spinach torte. Bonded a bit, though, over stories about Wilhelmina Slater's unparalleled capacity for evil."

"Christinaaa!"

"But! I've also been setting up a small studio over in Fulham and I've got some backers from Elle asking for a fall collection, Betty! A Fall. Bloody. Collection!"

They both scream into the phone again, and Betty knows she should shut up because even though Mrs. Beasley downstairs _appears_ to be deaf, she's not entirely certain. But she can't help herself. Betty bounces her way out of the kitchen, and starts hopping on the creaky old sofa. "We can go shopping _all the time_!"

"Every chance we get!" Christina agrees. "Start clearing some closet space!"

"You can come to all my Capital Issue events!"

"Come to them? Hell, I'll be dressing you! Don't think I'm above using our friendship for free exposure!"

"And I'll babysit Willy Nilly for you! Any time you want!"

"You realize that constitutes as a binding verbal agreement now, yes?"

"Christina!"

"Betty!"

"You're really coming to London?"

She can't stop yelling. It's like little pieces of her old life are mingling with the new, and she's overwhelmed with joy and comfort.

"I am! Really, really soon!"

"Thank God! Because I really need you to help me figure out this thing with Daniel before I lose him completely!"

She stops bouncing, and lands on her bottom on the sofa with a _whump_. On the phone, Betty can hear William squealing in the background, still caught up in the excitement.

"Betty?" Christina says gently.

"Sorry. Wow. Totally killed the moment there, didn't I?"

"A wee bit."

"Sorry. Sorry. Um, so you guys have a neighbourhood in mind?"

"Barnet. Not very trendy, but the schools are good. We're putting in an offer for a three-bedroom on Monday. Oh Betty," Christina says sadly.

Just then, her laptop rings. Betty dives for the kitchen table, grateful for the distraction.

"Christina, hold on a second. Hilda's on Skype."

She accepts the video call request, and Hilda's slightly pixelated face appears on her screen.

"Hey Betty. I got a question for you," Hilda says without preamble. She's in the Suarez living room, probably at the dining table, and Betty can see stacks of moving boxes in the background.

"What?" Betty asks warily.

"What to what?" Christina asks in her ear. William faint voice squeals 'Wot wot wot'.

Hilda stands up, and backs away a few feet from the webcam. She takes a deep breath, poses, and starts body-popping. "How come every time you come around, my London London Bridge wanna go down...?"

Betty groans as her sister booty-shakes across the screen. "Hildaaa! Stop! Seriously, every time?"

"What's she doing?" Christina demands.

"Like London London wanna go down..." Hilda's so off-key Betty has to turn the speakers down.

"Enough already! Put it away!" Betty laughs as Hilda does the bend and pop. "Christina, Hilda's doing that thing she started at the bachelorette."

"Ah. The visual is coming in loud and clear."

"Been working on that for Bobby," Hilda says, sitting back down. She flicks back her hair and adjusts her halter top, which was skewed a little during all that shimmying. "Hi, Christina!"

"Hilda says hi" Betty says into the phone.

"Hello, Hilda!" Christina calls back. "Betty, tell her I have big news!"

"Christina says hi," Betty relays. "And that she's a dirty liar who keeps secrets from her best friend."

"Ooh, sounds juicy! Tell her I want details!"

"Christina, Hilda wants—oh, this is stupid. Hold on." Betty pulls the phone away from her ear and switches on the speakerphone. She sets it down on the table near the laptop speaker.

"Okay, we're on something approximating a conference call. Christina, tell Hilda the big news."

"The McKinneys are moving to London!" Christina's tinny voice cries from the Blackberry.

Betty doesn't even attempt to curtail the screaming. It's best to get it all out of the system.

Christina gives Hilda a quick rundown of the moving plans. Betty listens in as she opens the fridge, contemplates cooking a real meal, then pours herself a bowl of cereal for dinner. She adores modern technology. Her flat suddenly feels full of people.

"Oh my God. That's amazing, Christina!" Hilda cries, clapping her hands. "But aw, sad face. Aren't you going to miss Scotland?"

"Oh, of course I will. It's been so lovely being somewhere big and green after living in that miserable little hole in Hell's Kitchen for years. But Betty knows better than anybody: sometimes you just have to pick up your skirts and chase your after dreams, because they're not going to come chasing after you. London is where I need to be if I want to really get my arse through the door."

"Rock on, Christina," Betty says, sliding back into the kitchen chair. She mimes flicking a spoonful of cereal at Hilda on the screen.

"Well, Papi will be so glad someone else is there to keep an eye on his _nenita_. Besides Daniel, of course."

Betty freezes with the spoon halfway to her mouth. "Um..."

"Christina, Betty just made a bad chilli face when I said that. What's going on?"

"I was just about to ask her that myself, actually. Betty?"

Betty contemplates hanging up on both of them and blaming it on a power outage. Instead, she finds herself blurting out, "You guys. I'm a terrible person."

Hilda makes a face. "Uh, what is 'the most untrue thing anyone's ever said', Alex."

Betty swirls the cereal around in the milk; she likes her Weetabix soggy. "No, it's not. I think I'm going to lose him, and I don't know how to stop it."

"Betty, what on earth is going on between you two?" Christina demands. "You've been so evasive ever since he showed up."

"She giving you the run around, too?" Hilda asks. "It's been crazy around here with the move, and Betty, you've been taking serious advantage of my distracted state. That shit won't fly anymore."

"I agree. Now talk to us. First, there was that sweet but dodgy letter, which you were so vehemently convinced was not about you."

"Yeah," Hilda chimes in. "And then Daniel shows his ass up in London, and suddenly you guys are just hanging out like it's any old night after work?"

Betty feels helpless. No, trapped. Trapped by their words.

The turn of phrase makes her pause.

"I don't know what to say," she replies around a mouthful of cereal. "You've both been busy, and I've been up to my eyeballs in it."

"That's not an answer, love."

"I know. It's just...everything is very complicated right now. I haven't spoken to Daniel in almost two weeks."

"You two have a row?" Christina asks, sounding concerned.

Betty gives an edgy little laugh. "No, not exactly. He's just...been keeping things from me."

On the screen, Hilda snorts and reaches for something outside the frame. "I'll say. Here's something I bet he hasn't told you: everybody here thinks he's hiding out in France with his tranny sister."

Betty drops the spoon into the bowl with a splash. "What?"

"What?" Christina echoes.

Hilda holds up a copy of Us Weekly, opened to a page of gossip sound bites. Betty can't make out the article, but there's a small, outdated photo of Daniel and Alexis at the Black and White Ball with the headline "Reunited Meade Publishing Heirs Living La Bon Vie?"

Hilda nods and for a second the video lags, leaving a weird expression frozen on Hilda's face and Betty in suspense. "Yeah. He never gave a press conference or anything before he up and handed Mode over to Wilhelmina. The whole thing was totally hush-hush. Fashion TV's been all over his neighbourhood trying to catch him since he quit. Guess it's like that Rio thing with Sophia Reyes a few years ago. Make everybody look right while he goes left."

"And who told them he's in France?" Oh, God. Maybe he was. Betty couldn't be certain.

"Statement from Alexis Meade herself. Came out just the other day. She must be helping him out."

"Why would he do that, though?' Betty asks, feeling all turned around. "Why not just tell the truth about where he is?"

Hilda shrugs. "Maybe to keep the paps from putting two and two together with that letter. Guess he doesn't want the story to spread over there and give you a hard time."

Betty's heart lurches at the kindness of that gesture. "That...that was very unnecessary of him. I mean, people here don't really know who he is. They have enough crazy home grown celebrities to keep the headlines full. Katie Price alone..."

"Betty, we're talking around the point here," Christina interrupts. "Just tell us. Why did Daniel quit Mode and come to London?"

"Because he wants to earn a job on his own. Prove he can get somewhere without using his name."

Squinting in scrutiny, Hilda leans closer to her webcam, giving an unflattering fisheye lens effect on Betty's end. "And?"

Betty pushes the cereal bowl away, pulling her feet up onto the chair and wrapping her arms around her legs. Her voice cracks. "And because he says he's in love with me."

* * *

Across the city, in a dim pub in Marylebone, Daniel sits at a corner table nursing a Guinness. A group of shirtsleeves and suit jackets are gathered under a flat screen television watching a Chelsea versus Liverpool game. The whole scene makes him feel very culturally immersed; it's only 6:30 pm and he's already well on his way to being tanked.

He was in the neighbourhood earlier signing off on a lease for a two bedroom flat. Why, he can't exactly say. He remembers the look on Betty's face when she asked him if they could still be friends, and that she needed him in her life. And even though they haven't spoken in almost two weeks, even though she's probably pissed as hell at him for bringing more drama into her life, he found himself willing to sign a contract binding him to this city for the next six months.

Doesn't mean he has to like it, though. He takes another drag of his beer, watching the guys holler at a bad call made by the ref. They turn to each other, shouting "did you see that? Did you SEE that?"

One guy in a lavender Hugo Boss shirt with a blue silk tie wrapped around his head spins around and points at Daniel. "Did you fucking see that? Completely offside, right?"

Daniel nods. "Looks like it. That should've been a corner kick. The ref's had it in for them the whole game."

The lavender shirt guy nods in approval, albeit a little blearily. "American, then. Not many football fans over there. Sorry, 'soccer'"

"I know a little bit." Daniel tips back the last of the Guinness.

"Oh, really. Who's your team? And don't say LA Galaxy."

Daniel treads carefully. Based on their indignation at the current score, he takes a guess. "Liverpool."

Lavender shirt squints at him for a second, then laughs. "Nah, mate. Don't worry. The only right answer with this lot is whoever's facing Chelsea."

Daniel smirks, liking this guy. He's about 30, with dark hair and eyes, and a lanky build. "In that case, if I'm not going to get beat up over it, I'd say Arsenal. Casually."

"Shaun! One of yours here!" Lavender shirt hollers across the pub. A burly blond guy waves back, calling "Bring him over then!"

Daniel thinks about refusing; slouching in a corner get drunk by himself seems much better suited to his mood right now.

Lavender shirt turns back to Daniel and sticks out his hand, the blue tie swinging in front of his face. "Rishi Nayyar."

Daniel shakes his hand. "Daniel Meade."

He's pleased when no recognition flickers in Rishi's eyes, and decides not to be such an unsocial bastard if he's going to be here the next six months.

"You here on holiday?" asks Rishi, leading Daniel over to the rowdy group.

"No. Just moved here a couple of weeks ago."

Rishi gives some introductions, but Daniel doesn't catch half of them over the noise when Chelsea scores another goal, and is too buzzed to remember the rest.

"Fucking hell. Utter waste of my time," the blond Arsenal fan—Shaun, that's it—grumbles at the screen. He swings around in the bar chair. "So where you from?"

"New York. Manhattan."

Rishi, Shaun, and few of the others who seem to have given up hope on the game hoot in surprise. "New York! What the hell are you doing in _this_ miserable city then?"

Daniel smirks, accepting a drink from a disembodied hand. "Thanks. It's not so bad. You've got good beer."

They all drink to that. Daniel joins them in shouting appropriately through the rest of the game. By the time Liverpool is finished getting their asses handed to them, Daniel's throat is sore.

Afterwards, a short guy with glasses, whose name got lost in the noise, asks Daniel what he does.

"Uh, nothing right now. Still looking around. Seeing what's out there."

"You got any family here?" asks Shaun. He waves at the server for a refill of his basket of fries. Chips.

"Not here, no. My sister and nephew live in Paris, though."

Rishi leans in, the knowing expression on his face obscured a little by the tie. "Ah. The picture is starting to come together. Let me guess..."

The whole group goes quiet, their attention on Daniel.

Daniel hesitates. He doesn't know these guys. It's personal.

"There might be a woman," he says, ruefully.

The whole group erupts into groans of sympathy. A few hands pat him on the back, and two more drinks are set down in front of him.

* * *

Betty sniffles and raises an eyebrow at Hilda, who looks thoughtful. Christina is silent.

"Well?"

"You know..." Hilda begins slowly, "I know I should be all like 'oh my God, what the hell, how could this be', but..."

"It actually sort of makes sense," Christina finishes.

"What? How can you say that?" Betty cries, distressed. "This is me and Daniel! Look up the word 'platonic' in the dictionary and there's a picture of us, like, chucking each other on the shoulder and ruffling each other's hair. We've never been anything but friends."

"Nobody's saying you were, Betty. But feelings can change. And it seems like Daniel's did."

"Yeah," agrees Hilda. She waves a sassy finger at the webcam. "Looks like he figured out that you are one hot commodity."

Betty squirms. The thought of Daniel being attracted to her—Daniel, who's dated some of the most beautiful women in the world—sits uncomfortably for some reason. And yet, she finds herself asking hesitantly, "Why does it make sense?"

"Daniel having feelings for you?" Christina asks. "I dunno. I suppose you two've always held a torch for each other. Doesn't seem like such a huge leap, now that I think of it."

"It's true. You guys always had this 'us against the world' thing going on."

"I wouldn't call it a _torch_, per se," Betty protests. "It's more like...we both felt really out of place when we started at Mode together, and we bonded. Like soldiers! Brothers in arms, you know?"

Betty realises she sounds ridiculous, but this discussion is making her antsy. But she needs to get through their curiosity before she's going to get some real advice from them.

"Aye, please. Put yourself in his shoes, Betty. Think back to all those crazy things you've done for him."

"Firsthand witness to the insanity, right here," says Christina.

"And remember when his Molly died? You stayed with him for days, when he cried and when he was so angry..."

"He needed somebody there with him," Betty murmurs. "I couldn't let him go through that alone."

Hilda raises her eyebrows knowingly. "If you ask me, he needed _you_."

Betty can't refute that. Daniel said as much in his three-word text the night Molly died. Underneath all the shared grief, Betty remembers feeling a twinge of surprise that she was the first person on the scene that night. Actually, she was the only one until his mother arrived, over an hour later because of traffic.

"I think you're the most devoted friend Daniel Meade's ever had," says Christina gently.

Betty's eyes sting a little because she knows this is true. "He's such a good person. I saw it right away. I just wanted to do right by him."

"Even when no one else did," says Christina. "And that's why he followed you, Betty."

"The more I think about it," says Hilda thoughtfully, swirling a piece of hair near her temple, "he'd be crazy _not_ to be in love with you. A nice guy like Daniel? He wants a woman who keeps it real. And he ain't ever gonna find someone like that in his usual crowd, know what I'm saying? And I'm not just talking about your boobs."

"Hilda!" Betty doesn't even know how to approach the thought of Daniel being aware of her breasts in any way. "So does this mean that I've been, what? Leading him on with my friendship? Is that what you're telling me?"

"No, of course not," says Christina. "But it's easy to see why would feel this way about you now. I imagine he's realized you're pretty much everything he could hope for in a woman."

Betty's face heats up imagining the look in his eyes when he told her he had a million reasons for his feelings. "I highly doubt that, but okay. But what am I supposed to do now? He's here in London, and we talked about this and he promised me we could still just be friends. But now asking him that makes me feel like such a...a...bitch."

"Betty!" Hilda and Christina gasp in unison.

Betty shrugs, casting her eyes down and pulling the cereal bowl back. It's deliciously mushy. "I miss him so much, but if he really feels this way about me, wouldn't it be...insensitive for me to keep calling him to hang out?"

"Right," says Christina. "I'm just going to go ahead and ask the obvious: you can't think about giving it a chance with Daniel?"

"That's what I'd like to know," says Hilda. "He's got a lot going for him. Smart, funny, goodhearted, and obviously pretty crazy about you. Papi loves him. We all do." She makes a 'duh' face. "And I know this ain't important to you, but it doesn't hurt that he's _ballin'_."

"Hilda, you're forgetting the obvious," says Christina.

"What, that he's smokin' hot? Just saving the best for last."

Betty doesn't say anything. She knew they were going to ask this, and she's not sure she can articulate her thoughts without sounding like one of those women who doesn't see a good thing when it's right in front of them.

Everything Hilda says is true, Betty knows this. Even about his looks, because seriously, she's not blind.

But the thing is, she was telling the truth when she told Daniel she's overwhelmed with the changes in her life. Sometimes she feels like an entirely new person here, one she doesn't always understand, and Daniel feels like an anchor to that part of her that will always walk into glass doors.

"I'm not sure we'd fit together, me and him," says Betty tentatively. "Christina, you saw us together every day for years. Can you really picture us together? As a couple?"

"Well," Christina muses, "maybe not when you first came to Mode, I suppose. But people change. You carry yourself differently now, Betty. I noticed it right away when you came to London. And it seems like Daniel's not exactly the same social disease hazard he was before, either."

"It's true. Can't remember the last time we heard about a crazy stalker ex leaving flaming panties on his doorstep."

"No, of course he isn't that guy anymore," says Betty, quick as always to defend him. "That's not it at all. But I couldn't stand it if we wrecked things so badly between us that we couldn't be around each other anymore. That would be just the worst thing."

"He's one of your dearest friends. That's a pretty solid start, isn't it?"

"I...I care about Daniel too much to take that risk if I'm not sure."

This is one of those things Betty isn't sure how to articulate; the pressure she feels knowing the depth of Daniel's feelings. She's never once looked at Daniel askance in that way, and to start something with him wouldn't at all be like dating a stranger she met in a coffee shop.

Here, in her little flat away from the magic of Peter and the warmth of Daniel's blue eyes, after two weeks of not seeing his face or hearing his voice, this all seems very logical. But something about this train of thought doesn't sit right in Betty's conscience and she digs until she lands upon that conversation with Mrs. Meade at her goodbye party.

She remembers denying Mrs. Meade's words, then turning them over in her brain, and reaching for a champagne glass because wow, that was a doozy of a theory. An intriguing one. She was intrigued, not upset. In that moment, she found herself composing all sorts of 'what if' scenarios she had never approached before. What if she never got the job offer? What would have happened a few months down the line?

And then, a tiny voice in the back of Betty's brain replays their conversation in the park.

"_Okay. But, um, just to be clear...is that a no forever?"_

"_I don't know, Daniel. I just...I need time."_

Why did she say that? Why did she qualify her answer with 'not right now?'

"I'm so mixed up. I wish I knew what to do," Betty whispers. "I don't even let myself think about this during the day. I can't lose focus on Capital Issue." She sniffles a little and gives Hilda a wavering smile. "God, I miss you two."

"I'll be there soon, my darling."

Hilda dabs at her eyes. "Virtual hug!" She mimes wrapping her arms around the webcam. Giggling wetly, Betty does the same.

"Are you angry with him, Betty?" Christina asks after a moment. "I don't imagine this is what you signed up for when you got on that plane."

She shakes her head vehemently. "No. I could never. He's done nothing wrong."

Indeed, it never occurs to Betty to feel resentful or angry at Daniel for complicating her life like this. She can see how someone else might feel that way—here she is, starting a new chapter where she's free to write a whole new persona for herself if she wants. As far as the rest of London is concerned, Beatriz Usoa Suarez is an unknown entity that just dropped from the sky. She can date strangers who'll never know what her smile looked like a few short months ago, or that she once drove a motorcycle into a big thing of Jell-O. After struggling her whole life against awkwardness and judgement and bad first impressions, this kind of freedom could be intoxicating if she lets it go to her head.

But that's if Betty is running away from something, and London was never, ever about running away. Betty isn't a rootless unknown entity; she is part of a family, a network, and she has a history she is proud of. The people she left behind made her the woman she is now, so how can she ever resent being loved by them? She's anxious, confused, unsure, afraid...but not angry.

"Then you need to call him up and tell him that," says Christina. "Because you know that's what he's thinking right now."

Betty nods, biting her lip. "I know. You're right."

"And Betty? I know that this is Daniel we're talking about, and you guys have a long history that makes this is really freakin' complicated, but..."

"But?"

"Just...don't be so hasty to close doors. Alright, chica?"

"I..." She trails off, unsure what to say. It's either close that door completely, or, God. Possibly let it fly right open.

Her heart suddenly begins to race.

"Betty?" Christina prompts.

"I won't," murmurs Betty. "I won't. I promise."

Betty says her goodnights, or good afternoons in Hilda's case. She swears Hilda to secrecy from the rest of the family, although she doesn't expect it to hold. Christina puts William on the phone to wish Betty goodnight, and Betty is successfully charmed by William's adorably accented 'night night, Aunt-eh Bet-eh!'

Later, after brushing her teeth, putting on her pyjamas, and climbing into bed, Betty picks up her Blackberry from the nightstand, and before she can talk herself out of it, dials Daniel's number.

It rings and rings, and Betty is just about to hang up—

"Hello? Betty, you still there?"

Right, caller ID. The sound of his voice fills her with warmth. He sounds like he's somewhere noisy. A British voice in the background shouts, "...shut up, it's _her_!"

_Okaaay. _It reassures her he's not in France.

"Betty?"

"So, I was thinking," Betty says in a rush, "have you ever been to the London Dungeon?"

"...Sorry?"

"The London Dungeon. It's this stupid amusement park near London Bridge. Like a haunted house. It's all Jack the Ripper, Sweeney Todd, Bloody Mary stuff with live actors trying to scare the crap out of you. And there's rides. Apparently it's one of those lame tourist trap London things you just have to see once."

"Um, no. Nnnope. Can't say I've been. Have you?"

Betty raises an eyebrow. "Daniel...are you drunk?"

"...Maybe like a little bit? Sorry. I'm making some friends."

She feels a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm glad. Where are you?"

"At the, um...Hey, Rishi. What's this place called?" he calls to someone in the background. There's a faint answer Betty can't make out. "The White Lion. I'm at The White Lion pub in Marylebone. Ha, that's fun to say. It's where I live now. Hey, so this is my local!"

She grins. He's an adorable drunk. And he's not in France. He lives in London now. For real.

Betty finds she is very okay with that.

"So, do you want to go? To the London Dungeon?"

"Yes! Of course! Sounds awesome. Actually, it sounds kind of cheesy. But in an awesome way."

"My thoughts exactly," she says, smiling. "It's Friday tomorrow, so I'll meet you after work. Is that okay?"

"Yep. My schedule is surprisingly clear." He struggles a little with the word 'surprisingly'.

Betty bites her lip. "Daniel...is it really okay?"

"Definitely okay," he says, his voice slurred and warm. "Hey, Betty?"

"...Yeah?"

"Really glad you called. Everything good at work?"

"Yes. It is. Thank you for asking."

"Good. I'm glad. I just said that, right?"

Betty snickers and nods, even though he can't see her. "Tomorrow's a school day for me, so I'm going to bed. Have fun. Be careful."

"I will," he murmurs. "Betty, wait! One more thing."

She slides down under the covers, feeling warm and sleepy. "What?"

His voice is smiling. "Is my hair thinning?"

Betty can't help it. She bursts into giggles.

"Goodnight, Daniel," she laughs. "Don't stay out too late."

She hangs up and tucks herself into bed. She is just drifting off when the phone pings. Assuming it's Daniel drunk-texting her, she sighs and gropes for the phone. The message is from Hilda.

_Forgot to add 1 more thing 2 the list: he's a rly good kisser! ;) _


	5. Chapter 5: Lost and Found

NOTES: So, so sorry about the delay again. I have no excuse. I've been chipping away at this for ages, but I'm just a very slow writer. It's a confidence thing, I'm sure. I'm always second-guessing every word I type, which makes things go reaaally sluggishly. And holy shit, did this one kick my ass.

Once again, I took some artistic liberties with my research. I've never been to the London Dungeon, so I did some Googling and some bullshitting. But I'm pretty pleased with the fact that the opening scene is coincidentally kind of Halloween-y. Would've been even better if I'd actually gotten it posted on Halloween, as planned.

Enormous thanks to Michele_from_tx for her insight and advice, which really helped give this chapter a direction. Also, one of Daniel's lines, I credit completely to her. Will post which one at the bottom. Thanks, Michele!

Anyway, another monster at over 8000 words. In fact, I even cut some scenes. You can probably tell where I originally intended to end this chapter — and then I just kept going until I doubled the length. Another major reason for the delay.

This one's mushy, guys. Enjoy.

* * *

CHAPTER 5: LOST AND FOUND

Daniel and Betty stumble away from the crowd exiting London Dungeon, hooting with laughter. It is well into the evening, and Friday night clubbers and pubbers wander the streets in high-heeled, mini-skirted, heavily-cologned clusters. The evening air is surprisingly pleasant, although Daniel and Betty don't notice. To them, early June nights should always feel like this. To the locals, it's a miracle that has them moments away from stripping in the streets.

"That actor, the one playing Bloody Mary . . . that was totally a guy, right?"

"Yes, definitely!" Betty agrees, laughing. "And how cheesy was that torture chamber, with those wax dummies getting their legs torn off?"

"Cheesy? That was the one thing that actually did scare me. Two words, Betty: The Castrator." Daniel mock-shudders. "No, thanks. I'd rather pick up trash on the side of the highway for all eternity."

"I don't really think they gave you options back then. Oh, and thanks, by the way, for pushing me forward when the Jack the Ripper guy was stalking around for a 'victim'. That wasn't at all mortifying."

Daniel snickers and waggles his iPhone at her. "Caught it all on video, too. You were really great about playing along, though. Even when he called you a — what was it again? Wait, let me check."

He taps a few buttons to replay the video, but Betty snatches the phone out of his hand. "It wasn't very nice, that's all you need to remember. He used to murder prostitutes, after all. I guess they were going for historical authenticity, but honestly. There were children."

"I thought you were going to tear into him," Daniel snickers. "Totally would've ruined the effect."

They stroll down the cobbled road toward London Bridge tube station, ostensibly to head their separate ways home. They are much more relaxed with one another than when Daniel met her in line for tickets earlier this evening. His expression when their eyes met over the crowd had been a mixture of pleased-to-see-her and deep vulnerability. At once, Betty had felt a rush of emotion, although she couldn't be sure which one — but whatever it was, she felt suddenly like they were on eggshells again. Which is exactly what she had been afraid of. Luckily, the line moved along quickly.

But sometime that evening — maybe when she was screaming in delighted terror on the drop ride that mimics being executed in the gallows of Newgate Prison, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to grab his hand — Betty decided that she was too overjoyed having him back to fret about awkwardness tonight. This is the Daniel she knows, has known for four years. The guy who, despite his charmed upbringing, has a surprisingly down-to-earth sense of fun that matches hers so well.

And yet. The things they are leaving unsaid and unresolved between them are piling up higher and higher. They are leaning heavily on their natural companionship to ease back into a familiar stalemate that Betty knows they can't maintain forever. Or even for the rest of the night. Something has to give.

Betty feels like she's gripping the door handle — but what should she do with it? Boy, is that ever the million-pound question.

"Justin would totally have a fit over the Sweeney Todd exhibition," says Betty.

"Why? He's not into the horror scene?"

"Are you kidding me? That kind of Rocky Horror Picture camp? He would've eaten that up with a spoon. I'm definitely bringing him here when he visits."

They pass through the well-lit pedestrian tunnel underneath London Bridge itself; the bulky stone structure rumbles menacingly from the automobile traffic overhead. Frowning, Daniel brushes his head when he feels drips.

"Same rule as in New York, Daniel," she says, sniggering.

"Right. If you feel something wet and it's not raining, it's better just to think about something else."

"Exactly."

"So Justin's coming soon? You must be excited."

Betty curls her fists, anticipating the moment she spots Justin at arrivals at Heathrow. She plans to be very dramatic and embarrassing. She might even go all old-school auntie on him and pinch his cheeks. "Yes! He's booked on a flight the day after his last final. That's exactly three weeks, six days, and eight hours away!"

Daniel smiles. "I guess 'excited' is an understatement."

"I can't wait to see him. I know it hasn't been that long since I left, but jeez. With a kid? It's like every day you're away from them, they change a little more. Hilda said he's shot up another two inches." At this news, Betty decided that her top priority during his visit will be feeding him as much as possible, as often as possible. He must be a rail.

Daniel looks impressed. "That'll put him at about the same height as me, right?"

Betty eyes him, mentally superimposing her image of Justin over Daniel's frame. It doesn't work; Justin's all lanky arms and delicate bones, and Daniel's . . . not. "I can't really tell. I'd have to see you two side by side."

Betty hasn't often looked at Daniel _that way_, but figures she should let herself do that now. Tentatively, she acknowledges a detail that she noticed her first day trailing behind him as his assistant, and then filed away along with other impersonal observations of famous people, like Patrick Dempsey's great hair, or Hugh Jackman's. . . Hugh Jackman:

In fitted blue G-Stars, and framed nicely by a short leather jacket she hasn't seen in a while, Daniel Meade's butt is absolutely gorgeous. Betty doesn't know whether to scold herself or smile for looking. And looking.

She's distracted by the red and blue Underground signage a few metres ahead. Betty's feet start to drag, and glancing at Daniel, she suspects he's on the same page. They're not ready for this night to end without some kind of closure.

"Daniel, I never asked you — have you ever been to London? Before now, I mean."

"A couple of times. My dad did a lot of business in London when I was a kid. I was here a bunch of times the year Mode UK was launched, especially. But I was maybe six or seven at the time, so I don't really remember much."

Betty nodded. "And you did a Eurotrip after high school, right? Was London one of the stopovers?"

Daniel looks sheepish. "I don't remember a whole lot about that trip, either."

Tentatively, she asks, "Have you done any touristy stuff since . . . since checking out Hyde Park with me?"

"No. Uh . . . no."

"Right. Neither have I. You know, work. Lots of it. So really, you don't know London any better than I do." An impulsive little idea forms in Betty's brain, and she halts them on the sidewalk. "You know. I've heard the best way to explore a city is to get lost in it."

Daniel quirks an eyebrow at her. "Sounds like the beginning of a Betty Suarez caper. Should I be nervous?"

In an act of awesome timing, complete with a dramatic hiss of steam, a red double-decker pulls up right beside them. Betty giggles at Daniel's impressed look. Following another impulse, she grabs his hand. With the other, she digs into her skirt pocket for her Oyster card.

"Come on. Let's get lost."

* * *

They stumble up the stairs of the stairs of double-decker, which drives off again almost as soon as they tap their Oyster cards on the electronic reader. Daniel curses the driver from behind her, while Betty grips the handrails as the bus takes a sharp left. She feels herself sway dangerously, and for a second fears she is going to knock them both down ass-over-teakettle. But suddenly Daniel's hands are clasping her waist, holding her steady. She glances down at him over her shoulder.

"Careful," he says. He looks a little embarrassed, but gently pushes her up the rest of the way.

"Thanks. I think I'm still a little unsteady from the rides." She is unsettlingly aware of her lower back, even after he releases her to swing into a seat.

The top deck is completely empty. Instead of sitting beside Daniel, Betty plops down in the row in front of him, stretching out her legs on the vacant seat next to her.

"For some reason, I pictured these being a lot fancier on the inside," Daniel says, looking around.

"What, velvet cushions? Drapes over the windows?"

"Something like that. But it's just like any other bus."

Betty giggles. "Your experience with city buses being vast enough to make that comparison."

"Hey. There was that time Willie and I went low-budget to get that government bail-out. I'm not totally out of touch."

"Ah, yes. Almost forgot about those four whole days." Betty notices that in the handful of times Wilhelmina has come up in their conversations, Daniel's referred to her as 'Willie'. She bites back a smile, endeared. Despite everything, Betty suspects Daniel misses his diva adversary a little.

"So. Where are we headed?"

"Well, the final destination of this bus is —" She squints up at the digital reader above the window, "— McDonald Road."

"Okay. And where is that?"

Betty shrugs, delighted. "I have no idea. Let's just get off when we feel like it. " She crosses her arms over the back of the seat, smiling at his confused but trusting expression. He smiles back, but the space between them is already beginning to expand. Betty opens her mouth to ask if DJ has plans to visit London sometime, too — _ease into it_, she thinks —

— But Daniel's face clouds over, and he blurts out, "I'm sorry, Betty. I would take it back if I could. It was too much, too soon."

_Okay, no easing_. "No, Daniel. . ."

"Not that I didn't mean it," he continues, looking distressed. "I did — I _do_. But it was selfish. All I was thinking about was what I wanted to say. Not what you were ready to hear. And now everything's so goddamn. . ." He makes a whirling hand gesture, ". . . between us."

"Daniel —"

"I'm sorry, Betty," he repeats. "That's all I've been thinking about the last two weeks, how badly I screwed up. I shouldn't have dropped all that on you when I knew, I _knew_ you have so much else going on. If you don't hate me — God, then that's all I can ask for."

Betty can't speak, but it doesn't matter because Daniel is on a roll.

"I know the last thing you probably want is drama following you here — but Betty, it doesn't have to be like this." Betty wants to slap her hand over his mouth or hug him or do _something_, because his anxious, upset expression is really stressing her out. "We can go back to the way things were; I _know_ we can. You have to believe me when I say I'm your friend over everything else."

By now, he is slumped over in his seat, elbows on his knees. The bus is barrelling down the Embankment road, which runs parallel to the Thames towards the Houses of Parliament. Across the river, the London Eye lights up purple in the corner of Betty's vision, and some small part of her brain registers that she has yet to take a ride on it — because she wanted to go with him. Unbidden, she feels a lump in her throat.

"Are you done?" she manages.

"Just one more thing," he says in a tone so pained the lump nearly chokes her. "I mean, I just signed a lease for a place yesterday — but let's face it, I'm rich. I can get out of it. Betty, I don't want to, but if _you_ want me to. . . I'll leave. Go back to New York."

"NO!" Everything speeds up again, and Betty scrambles to her knees on the seat, leaning far over the back until she can grab his arm. "No! That's not fair. You don't get to manipulate me like that."

Daniel's face becomes ashen and she backpedals. "Wait, that's not what I meant. That's the wrong word."

"I wasn't trying to . . . I was just . . ."

She squeezes his arm. "I know you weren't. I'm sorry I said that. I just meant, please don't make me feel like you're giving me an ultimatum. I can't deal with that. Please."

"I wasn't. I swear. Betty, you have to know that whatever happens next is entirely up to you. You know where I stand."

For a minute, all she feels the immense weight of his gaze on her shoulders, the immobilizing fear of giving the wrong answers — but even then, she can't bring herself to become angry with him, because all he's doing is caring about her, so why is she being so awkward, and why can't she just _figure out_ what she wants from him so she can put them both out of their misery. . .?

Suddenly, Betty is tired of playing this role. Of trying to be the smoother-over. When had they ever had this much difficulty talking to each other? Ever since he arrived in London and jerked her entire understanding of him upside down, that's all she's been trying to do: fill the silences, make small talk, avoid, avoid, avoid. Enough is enough. Time for some good old-fashioned honesty.

Mentally tightening her grip on the door handle, she squares her shoulders. "Okay, Daniel. You need to listen to me now. No interruptions, no apologies. Got it?"

He nods, looking apprehensive. "Got it."

"Okay, first off? You have nothing to be sorry for, do you understand? _Nothing_. I feel . . . so many things right now, but angry is not one of them. Not at _all_. In fact, I'm the one who should be apologizing. I don't know how these last two weeks happened, but they shouldn't have."

"You needed —"

"Space. Yes, I know. I said no interrupting. I did need time to think, and thank you for giving me that, Daniel. But I was wrong for me to just leave you hanging. Obviously you've got the totally wrong idea now, because I didn't give you a clue what I was thinking. I mean, here's me telling you all these things, like. . . like how I kept checking my phone for your call right up until my plane took off — and just seeing you now and talking to you is like having my favourite things about home right in front of me — and how I can't think of _anyone_ I'd have more fun exploring this city with — and that your faith in me makes me feel like I can do just about anything. . . And then what do I do? I just drop off the radar. It was stupid, and totally the wrong way to deal with my feelings, and I'm sorry."

". . . I don't think you told me any of that."

"Oh. Didn't I?"

"No. I'm pretty sure I would remember." Daniel stares at her in a kind of stunned wonder.

"Are you sure? Because I'm thinking those things all the time, and . . ."

Betty trails off. A sensation comes over her, but she's not quite sure what it is; the best she can compare it to is that feeling of relief after combing the last few snarls out of her wet hair after a shower. She settles back down on her bottom, and peers at him over the back of the seat.

Daniel looks at her questioningly, but Betty doesn't turn her gaze away. She can't.

"Betty? What is it?"

"Daniel," she murmurs, "I think . . . I think what I need to do is look at you. For just a minute. Can I do that?"

His eyes go wide, his mouth a little open. "Ah, okay."

So she looks. And looks and looks. The double-decker rumbles past the Houses of Parliament, shuddering to stop. The posh electronic bus lady's voice announces "This is Westminster Station." Footsteps get on and off the bus, but thankfully, no one comes upstairs.

She ignores this all. Something inside her is working furiously; there is an answer there in the curve of his brow, or the line of his jaw, or the light freckles on his cheeks. She can find it. It's in the details. She's good at details.

Daniel fidgets. He toys with the tab on his jacket zipper, and then swipes his hands across his thighs. He gives her an uncertain smile, but doesn't look away.

He has a lovely mouth, she realises. And a surprisingly quirky grin for a man so classically handsome. Why hasn't she ever noticed this? Or maybe she has noticed but never _felt_ it before. Well, she does now, right on the apples of her cheeks where her blushes always start. In fact, she feels one coming on right now.

Something in her expression must be encouraging, because Daniel's hands go still and his face becomes intent, sending Betty's heart rate up. He reaches out and slowly, gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers trail along her jaw. He leans forward, bringing his blue eyes — so beautiful she feels them between her ribs, right next to her heart — close to hers.

"What is it?" he asks again.

Betty's heart hammers at the nearness of him. "Convince me," she says.

"What?"

"Daniel, convince me that this is a good idea. You and me. That it's worth the risk. Because we're risking _so_ _much_."

He seems stunned into silence, and Betty doesn't blame him; she doesn't know where that came from, either. But it feels right. She needs to know what compelled him to turn his life upside down, where his faith is coming from.

To her surprise, his face splits into a warm smile. He thumbs the next-stop button on the pole near his seat; it dings pleasantly, and he grabs Betty's hand, hauling her to her feet.

"Aren't we supposed to be getting lost?"

* * *

Weirdly, they end up across the street from the Apollo Victoria theatre, staring up at the enormous green billboard announcing it as the London home of _Wicked_.

"Did you ever end up going back to see the rest?" Daniel asks.

He gives her a searching glance, probably recalling their charged argument that night over Betty's decision to knowingly break her own heart. They both said some harsh things, and the fight was definitely one of their more personal ones, but Betty finds the memory doesn't bother her; it's just another part of their history together. Besides, she has more than enough to think about in the present to care about a fight two years out of date.

"Yes, with Justin and Hilda. A little while . . . um, before I went on my West Coast trip."

_A little while after Henry left and I was a pitiful, heartbroken mess_, is what she doesn't say. Another memory that has long lost its sting now — seeing Henry again this time finally confirmed for Betty that their time together has passed for good. All the same, she doesn't think it's a great idea to bring any of that up right now.

Suddenly, something clicks for Betty.

_Daniel! You cost him his job!_

_I'm your friend! Don't I have the right to protect you when I see you making such a big mistake?_

That was almost a month before Daniel even found out she was leaving.

_Oh_, she thinks, astonished.

"I never did." Daniel is still looking at the billboard contemplatively. "I think I'd like to. It is a good ending?"

"Yes. But bittersweet." She is only half-listening.

_I was supposed to see Trista on Saturday. . . What's with the face? Why are you so down on her? _

The puzzle pieces are slotting together; most of them are Daniel's, but Betty is beginning to think that maybe, just maybe she holds a few pieces, too.

"I wouldn't have gone back to New York," Daniel gives her a sidelong glance as they carry on down the street, destination unknown. "I don't know why I said that, but I wouldn't leave. Not my lease. Or my new job."

Betty is pulled out of her thoughts. "Your what?"

There is a glint of pride in his eyes. "Sorry, let me rephrase that: my possible new job. Nothing's confirmed yet, but I think I left a good impression. That's what I was told, anyway."

"Daniel, that's amazing! I didn't know you were interviewing already!" Betty momentarily forgets everything else in her delight. "What's the job? When do you start? Tell me _everything_."

Daniel smiles, but shakes his head. "We can talk about that later. It's not important right now."

"Sure it is. Daniel, this is huge!"

They pass a small square with grass, benches and tall trees, on the corner of a busy junction. Daniel steers them inside, where the noise and pedestrian traffic is a little dimmer. They pause under a streetlamp, and Daniel gently takes both of her hands in his. Absently, she notices for the first time that his fingers are a little calloused right at the tips. Strange.

"Betty, I know this is asking a lot of you, but could you just . . . switch your brain off for a little bit? And just look at the big picture with me? Then maybe you'll see what I do. . ." He takes a breath, looking at her intently, ". . . when I think about us."

"Is — is this you convincing me?" she asks, a little nervously. Heat radiates up her wrists and arms.

"God, I hope so. Okay, here it is: I'm here, in London, because of you, Betty. Yes, I do want to straighten out my life and make something of myself. Live up to my potential for once in my damn life. But mostly . . . mostly it's for you. To be with you. But you already know that."

Betty swallows, and nods. She does, and tries not to let the hugeness of that gesture frighten her.

"But what I don't think you get," he continues, "is that I didn't make this decision lightly. At all. Betty, you mean _so_ _much_ to me. More than I think you'll ever know — more than _I_ knew, until I had to face losing you, and that makes me the biggest idiot in the world. I hate to throw a cliché at you, but sometimes they're just true. You, Betty, make me want to be a better man."

He says it in a slightly gruff, silly voice. Betty finds herself fighting a giggle, despite the swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

He grins back, but quickly becomes serious again. "I know you're worried about ruining what we have now, because what we have now is great. Amazing, in fact. You are, without a doubt, the best friend I've ever had," Daniel murmurs, confirming Christina's sentiment yesterday. "But I just think we could be . . . even better. I know we could."

He pauses, presumably to gauge her reaction so far. She instinctively squeezes his hands, and buoyed, he says, "Just think about it. We hardly ever fight, and when we do, it's pretty much always my fault. And I don't know about you, but I never get tired of spending time together. How many people can pull the kind of sixteen hour work days we used to at Mode, and not get sick of the other person? Me — I was always, always glad to see you again the next morning."

"So was I," Betty murmurs. She knows it's not the same thing, but she still hears a little voice in the back of her head coo, "_miss you muuuch."_

"Betty, we have fun together, always. My mom loves you probably more than she does me, and I'm pretty sure your dad doesn't think I'm a _total_ waste of space. We know each other practically inside out — well, you know everything there is to know about me, anyway. Probably way more than you ever signed up for. Sometimes you feel like a total mystery to me, though. Like, um, right now. But that's okay — because I respect you, I admire you, I _adore_ you more with every new thing I learn about you."

Betty ducks her head, overwhelmed by the emotion in his eyes. "I never did thank you properly for your BLOBys speech."

"I meant every single word." He lowers his head, meeting her eyes. "Betty, it scares me, bone-deep, to think where I'd be now if I hadn't met you. I know I've disappointed you more times than I can count — but I swear I am going to do everything it takes to become the kind of guy you deserve. That is, if you want me. Wait, no; even if you don't, I still want to be that guy. Because on top of a million other things, you taught me what it's like to expect more from myself. And I can't ever go back from that.

"Betty, I really meant what I said in the park. I can't imagine ever meeting someone else like you. You and me? I think we could be something really special." He holds her eyes intensely for a moment, but in the face of her silence, Betty sees the self-consciousness kicking in. "Um, I've had a lot of time to think about what I'd say to you if . . . well, anyway. I planned something a lot better in my head, but I didn't bring my cheat sheet."

_Oh, wow_, is all Betty can think.

Something she always knew about Daniel is that he has a mile-wide romantic streak, though it was deeply hidden for a long, long time. What she never expected, what never occurred to her even once, was that he would turn it on her.

Standing here under the yellow light of one of those pretty, ornate streetlamps that dot the nicer parts of the city, she takes in the way his hands feel in hers; a familiar touch she suddenly experiences along every inch of skin, covered and uncovered. Her eyes close.

When she opens them again, Betty sees Daniel standing here with her, in _London_, stroking her knuckles with his rough thumbs, gazing at her so tenderly and hopefully. . . and all at once comprehends his enormous gesture for what it is:

The single most romantic thing anyone has ever, _ever_ done for her.

Her heart lurches so fiercely her breath catches, and the ground beneath her suddenly seems to disappear.

She knows this feeling, and can pinpoint the other times in her life when she felt it: When Walter first approached her in the CD player section at Pro Buy and shyly told her which one he owned himself; when Henry admired the butterfly Halloween costume she had put together so carefully, told her the exact species she had modelled it after, and at her awed look, pushed his glasses up his nose and explained that it was just something he knew; when she stood pressed against the wall outside the sandwich shop, chest heaving and lips tingling from Gio's urgent kiss; when Matt smiled with such pleasure when, against his expectations, she showed up at that bar and accepted the drink he had ready for her anyway.

This is that feeling. Times about a frillion.

"So." He swings her hands a little. "How are my powers of persuasion? Working any magic?" he says, trying to lighten the mood a little. The strain in his voice nixes the effect.

"I . . ." Betty wants to say something clever, something that fits with the banter they've always exchanged. But all she can do is squeeze his hands again and whisper, "Okay."

Daniel hardly moves a muscle. "Okay? As in, 'okay, I hear you and I'm not totally horrified'. Or, like, actually okay?"

She takes a step closer until their joined hands are lightly pressing against her abdomen. "Actually okay. Daniel, I think. . . I think you might really be on to something."

And then she smiles so brightly she's certain her whole body must be beaming, before slipping her hands out of his and around his waist. He's warm and solid and familiar and so new to her eyes, all at the same time.

It takes Daniel a moment to reciprocate. When he does, he buries his face in her hair, and Betty thinks he might actually be squeezing the air out of her lungs.

Which, turns out, is an absolutely wonderful feeling.

* * *

After that, they hop on the nearest Underground line and get even more lost. Whatever notion they had about separating and heading home has vanished; their eagerness to be together makes the night feel suddenly young and endless.

On the tube, they sit side by side, both aware of the press of their legs against one another, and both aware that the other is aware. Betty's stomach is alive with butterflies the whole time, but they're the good kind. The wonderful kind. She can't believe this is _Daniel_. She bumps him with her shoulder playfully. He bumps her back. She's certain he's never looked at her the way he is now, with that tiny smile and open gaze.

Exiting at White City station, for no other reason than because the name intrigued Betty, they are slightly disappointed to find themselves in a residential neighbourhood facing a giant glass and cement shopping mall.

Betty frowns. "This looks just like the Queens Centre Mall. Not exactly high on my list of sights to see. Let's try again."

Daniel agrees. They round the corner from the station, looking for a convenience store to grab a couple of Pepsis before getting back on the train, and Betty lights up when she realizes they're standing right in front the BBC Headquarters building. She tells Daniel about the interview scheduled for next week, and how nervous she is —"because me and TV appearances are not exactly friends" — but Daniel assures her that this time will be better. This time, she'll be in her element.

"Capital Issue is your home turf, Betty. This isn't Suzuki trying to trick you into saying something that'll be taken out of context and turned into a sound bite later. It's the BBC — that's huge!"

"I know. Fashion TV looks like a cakewalk right now," Betty says, eyeing the austere building across the road.

"What I mean is, these guys are real journalists; they actually want to hear what you have to say. And that's why you're going to dazzle them, Betty. Just so you know, I plan to record the whole thing and send it home to _everyone_. "

Betty makes a childish face at him, but can't maintain it in the face of his boyish grin. She fully appreciates the charm of that smile for the first time, and wonders if she wants him to take her hand.

* * *

Later, they hit Piccadilly Circus. Betty's been through here a few times already, mostly to catch shows with coworkers on Shaftesbury Avenue. Daniel hasn't, and wonders why it's called a 'circus'.

"London's version of Times Square," Daniel says. "Understood."

That's not the reason for the name, Betty explains; it's simply because the road in the centre is circular. But the building-height LCD billboards flashing ads for Coca Cola, Foster's beer, Sanyo, and Adidas, — all with some sort of World Cup twist — definitely give the place a carnival atmosphere. That good-looking soccer player — the one married to the pop singer but isn't David Beckham — smoothes a hand over his jaw with a winning smile under a Gillette logo.

"And while we'd never be caught dead doing this back home —"

"— Here, we're the obnoxious, tasteless tourists. Let's go sit down."

When the signal changes, they cross the road with the rest of the crowd, and climb the steps of the rather random classical Greek statue placed smack-dab in the middle of the hectic traffic roundabout. The plaque informs Betty that it is Eros, the god of love.

Well, then.

Settling down to drain the last of their Pepsis, they sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the steps and indulge in some people-watching. The thrumming crowds and flashing lights and honking taxi cabs circling around the junction should feel chaotic and overwhelming, but Betty and Daniel are city-slickers through and through. It's all simply background noise around their little bubble of two.

"Sounded like you were having fun last night." Betty teases. "How was getting up this morning?"

Daniel chuckles. "You mean, this afternoon?"

"Ah, so you had a _really _good time. I'm glad. You said you were making friends? Tell me about them."

"Just some guys I met in the pub. Couple of them run a software development company together, and the rest are mostly bankers over in – what's that financial sector here called again?"

"Canary Wharf."

"Right, Canary Wharf. Anyway, they play on this amateur league soccer team — sorry, _football _team— together a couple times a week. In fact," he smiles, "they asked me to come and try out tomorrow. And by 'try out' they mean fill in for a guy whose wife just had triplets and won't let him out of the house anymore."

"Your chance to relive your high school glory days. Good for you. They sound fun."

"Seems like it. It was different, good, to hang out with people who don't know anything about me besides what I tell them."

Betty nods. "But be careful with that. All it takes is one person to Google your name out of boredom, and it's all out there. You don't want to seem like you're lying."

"You make it sound like I'm Batman, hiding some secret identity." He pauses. "Actually, keep doing that. Makes me sound really cool."

She understands what he isn't saying. "You want to be sure people like you for you. Not your name."

He hesitates, and then nods slowly. "It's easier here. For me to know that."

"I wouldn't worry." Betty bumps him with her shoulder again. "They'd have to be absolutely, incredibly _stupid_ not to see what I do in you, Daniel."

Not nearly as beautiful as the words he spoke to her, but she knows Daniel can read the sincerity in them. He clears his throat. "One guy, Rishi, he's sort of the driving force behind the software company. Started it when he was 21, working out of his uncle's cell phone accessories store or something. He's only a couple years older than you, and he's got, like, thirty people working for him. Totally self-made." He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I think about six beers in I told him I want to be just like him when I grow up."

Betty almost snorts her Pepsi. She manages to keep it all in, but then gasps and smacks his knee in realization.

"Your job! Spill it."

He gets that pleased look on his face again. "Don't jinx it, nothing's confirmed yet. But I did have a few meetings last week. In fact, a couple of magazines actually approached _me_ when they heard I was here, which was weird."

"You know what that means, right? The work you did at Mode earned you a pretty great reputation."

"The work _we_ did, Betty. Anyway, British Vogue and GQ were pretty pushy with their offers, but those are all going nowhere. No way am I going to work for a magazine that directly competes against Mode and Hudson UK. Loyalty to the family legacy aside, my mom and Alexis would _kill_ me. In ten thousand different ways."

"But I take it Mode UK is not an option you're considering?"

"No. It's not."

She nods; he doesn't need to explain.

"And anyway," he continues, looking thoughtful, "I don't think publishing is where I want to be. Especially not fashion. That's something else I've been thinking about a lot. Me, the Editor-in-Chief of a _women's_ _fashion_ _magazine_? I mean, I learned to love the work, but seriously. Talk about your round peg in a square hole."

"Make that two round pegs."

Daniel grins and dorkily holds out his hand, palm up. "But we rocked it anyway, didn't we?"

Betty doesn't need prompting. She laughs and high fives him. "Hell yeah, we did."

In one smooth motion, Daniel closes his fingers around hers. It turns their familiar gesture into something new, and Betty feels her face warm up. He looks at her carefully, holding her hand loosely so she can easily pull away. But Betty just tightens her grip a fraction and says, "So get to the point already. What does this have to do with your new job?"

His eyes continue to smile as he says, "It doesn't. Just giving you some background. The job I'm really gunning for is at this ad agency that only does work for the non-profit sector. Turns out they're pretty huge over here — they manage most of the Red Cross's European campaigns, and they've got contracts with Amnesty International, Doctors Without Borders, and a couple of other big ones. Even the government hires them out for health campaigns, like those ones about getting your kids immunized before they start school. Anyway, they were looking for new blood, and I just . . . I went in there, and I told them. I told them why they needed me, and not some other guy." He turns until he's facing her fully. "Betty, I'm good at selling ideas. That's what I figured out from my time at Mode. I'm good at getting people to want things they didn't know they wanted — but I don't want to use that to sell clothes or shoes or any of that pointless stuff anymore. I want to use it to make people realise they want to support education initiatives, or disaster relief funds, or . . . or cancer research."

Betty squeezes his hand. She is one of the very few people who know the exact figure Daniel anonymously donated to the American Cancer Society last year.

"Anyway, they're supposed to get back to me next week after they interview a couple more people. So there it is. A little out of left field for me, right? But I can't believe how badly I want this."

All Betty can say is, "You . . . are just full of surprises tonight. That sounds amazing, Daniel. And like exactly the right place for the person you are now. I'm so, so proud of you."

"Thank you," he says quietly. He gives her a sidelong glance full of gratitude and warmth and – _don't hide, Betty_ – love. And she doesn't hide. She looks right back at him until a funny thought occurs to her.

"Daniel, have you ever actually had a job interview before?"

He grins. "Nope. Went in there totally blind. But I figured out pretty quick the first thing I had to sell was myself."

_You're doing a hell of a job_, Betty thinks, and she suspects from the pleased look on his face that he knows what she's thinking. As one, they shift their hands until their fingers interlock.

He helps Betty to her feet, and neither of them let go. "Where next?" he asks.

* * *

After that, they try St. Paul's Cathedral (Betty's pick again), which turns out to be another unsuccessful effort, as visiting hours ended before Betty's workday did. One more random hop on the Tube lands them at Russell Square, where late-night hunger pangs hit. For the nostalgia factor, they order Chinese take-out from a place that oddly advertises itself as New York-style, and eat it sitting on the back of a park bench. Betty's fortune cookie reads, 'A SMILE IS YOUR PERSONAL WELCOME MAT', which sends them both into hysterics. When Daniel cracks his open and finds 'YOU LOVE CHINESE FOOD' inside, they unanimously decide that 'Wok This Way' on Carling Street will be their new go-to place.

Finally, they concede defeat to exhaustion and the late hour, and hop on the Tube toward Islington. Betty once again makes some weak protests about Daniel going out of his way unnecessarily, and that he'll likely miss the last train of the night, but he won't hear a word of it. In the end, Betty is very okay with squeezing every last minute out of this night. She knows it might be a little while until the next one.

On the walk home, Betty warns him reluctantly that she has a hellish few weeks leading up to Capital Issue's launch.

"Daniel, believe me. I'm certain now that I want to give this—us—a chance. But there's a problem with one of our editors, and I'm really freaked out because I think we might have to fire her, and then, of course, I have to replace her — and Francisca and I haven't even _talked_ about the BBC thing yet, not to mention all the launch party details, and to top it off, I _still_ haven't hired an assistant. . ."

"Hey, hey. Listen. I understand, okay? This is what you came here for, and I'm not going to get underfoot. I think I spent enough time demanding your attention whenever I wanted it. You, Betty, uh, Something Suarez, just keep being amazing. Do what you need to do. I'm not going anywhere."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. But thank you for understanding." She grins. "You're unbelievable, Daniel _Jonathan_ Meade. All this, and you don't even remember my full name?"

"Your first name is Beatrice. I know that."

"Not Beatrice. _Beatriz_." She teasingly enunciates the rolling 'r' and the zippy 'z'. With no one to converse with, she hasn't spoken a single—admittedly broken—Spanish word since she left New York, and she likes the familiar feel of the word in her mouth.

She also really likes that Daniel took her hand again after they finished their take-out, and hasn't let it go since. Their personal bubbles, already small to begin with around one another, have shrunk to almost nothing. "And my middle name is Usoa, but I don't blame you for not remembering that one."

"I knew it began with an unusual letter," he says. "'Usoa'. That's pretty. What does it mean?"

"'Dove'."

For some reason, Daniel laughs in amazement. "A bird. Of course."

"Not very fitting, right? But Papi says the day I was born, a white dove landed on the windowsill of my mother's hospital room, and he was convinced it was looking down at me in my bassinet. I'm pretty sure it was probably one of those creepy albino pigeons, but that's the story he likes to tell."

Before they know it, they're climbing the handful of steps to Betty's front door. They both know what normally happens right now, but this thing between them is too new, too fragile to push just yet. Daniel seems to sense this, and pulls her into a hug. Betty sinks into his arms, warm and sleepy. Did he always smell this good?

"Hey," he whispers into her hair. "Can I ask you something?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Will you go out with me?"

She smiles into his chest. "I thought that's what we've been doing."

His laugh rumbles under her ear, and he sways them back and forth, like they're dancing. "You know what I mean. Will you go on a date with me? A real one? I pick you up, you wear a fancy dress, the works."

She knew this was coming, but still her heart beats a little faster. She tips her head back, still in his arms, and nods. "Yes. I would love that."

"Good. Great. Oh, but only after the big launch, of course."

"Maybe I can pencil you in before that." She sighs happily. "Well, then. Goodnight, Daniel."

"Goodnight, Betty."

They continue to sway back and forth, smiling stupidly until Betty takes the initiative and reluctantly pulls away to unlock her door. She thinks they might be there a while otherwise. But she lingers in the doorway, half-in, half-out. "Did I tell you how glad I am you're here?"

"Yeah. But I can hear it again. Did I tell you how glad I am you didn't slap me when I showed up that first day?"

She giggles. "No."

"Well, I am. Go. Sleep. You've had a long day."

"Call me tomorrow."

"Try and stop me."

"'Night."

Daniel squeezes her hand right before she shuts the door. "'Night."

She leans against the door for a long moment, unable to wipe the beam off her face. God, she forgot how wonderful this part is.

Justin told her that morning they sat on the stoop, _Aunt Betty, you're all about risk._ Betty thinks she needs to remind herself that more often, especially when her whole issues-with-change thing rears up. After all, coming to London is one risk that is paying off beautifully. Who's to say taking this other one won't turn out the same?

And he's worth the risk. She's certain of that now.

Light on her feet, she climbs the stairs, shedding her shoes, purse and light blazer at the top. Entering the bedroom, she digs out her pyjamas, begins pulling up the hem of her dress, and then pauses. Dropping the hem, she quickly exits the bedroom, and descends the stairs again. Irrespective of the neighbours and the late hour and anything else, she grips the door handle and throws it open, relishing the _bang_ when it hits the wall. A warm spring breeze blows around and between her legs, and through her hair, and up the stairs, filling the spaces of her new home.

Betty kicks into a jog, and then a run, racing back down the street. Her long hair flies out behind her like a banner, until she rounds the corner onto the High Street.

"Daniel!"

He turns around, the streetlamps illuminating his startled expression right before she flies into his arms.

"Oof! Betty, what's —?"

Before she realises what she's doing, she is stretching up and up on her tiptoes — she's half-wearing the first pair of flats she found littering her doorway, so he has almost a foot on her. He gets the picture and pulls her closer as her hands slip around the back of his neck, fingering the short, red hairs there. Eyes drifting shut, she feels Daniel's fingers slide up and under her hair, cradling her head. She stretches even higher, and he leans down, and she feels his warm breath on her lips, his nose grazing hers lightly, her heart pounding—

And then his hands tilt her face slightly to the left, and he presses a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. Once, and then one more time.

He pulls back, and Betty stares at him. There's a gentle, teasing glint in his baby blues.

"We haven't even been on a date yet. What kind of guy do you think I am?"

She bites back a smile. "Of course. What was I thinking?"

He gives her a look full of warmth — full of heat — and lifts her knuckles to his lips. "Sweet dreams, Betty."

As his figure retreats down the street, Betty knows from the bounce in his step that he can hear her giggling behind him.

* * *

_This is all Michele: 'All I was thinking about was what I wanted to say. Not what you were ready to hear.'_

_I also added a line in Daniel's speech after reading Yahtzee's fic 'Suspension': 'It scares me, bone-deep, to think where I'd be now if I hadn't met you.'_


End file.
